Change of address

Last week was Disco Week on American Idol, a.k.a. The Adam Lambert Show.

Well, Gabriella was in heaven. No, not because of Adam Lambert though we are both fans. The girl cannot resist singing along to music of yesteryear, and she particularly enjoys good disco. I know that some may feel it appropriate to share their opinions on the subject of disco. “Good disco? That’s an oxymoron!” you may say. I have only one reply to those lifeless duds of humanity who hate disco and most likely hate puppies and eat ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread with mayo. In the words of Travis Tritt, “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares!”



We recorded American Idol on the DVR – the only way to watch a 1 hour program with 15 minutes of content hosted by one of the most irritating television so-called "personalities". Ryan Seacrest makes my skin crawl. It is during this program that I reminded how much I love Kathy Griffin for despising Seacrest.



As I was saying before I rudely digressed, Gabriella was getting into the disco tunes. As she was dancin’ and singin’ and movin’ to the beat... I turned to her as she hit a wonky note and said, “Kinda pitchy, dawg. Keep your day jo.... oh, never mind.” She laughed. That’s why I love her. She can laugh at herself even during times like these. Besides, I know that when Gabriella reads this paragraph, she will not be able to resist singing the rest of the referenced song and will have forgotten all about the fact that we’re staring right into the black hole of poverty and despair. She’s easily distracted. Bless her cotton socks.

Others might be hurt by that kind of cruel insensitivity. The girl deals with the pressure of the job search in this crippled economy (or should I say fiscally challenged economy?), and the last thing she needs at the end of a long day hitting the pavement is a reminder that she is still unemployed. She deserved a little mindless entertainment to escape the worries of the day when her adoring partner chose to shove reality right in her face during Earth, Wind and Fire’s September. That’s cold, dawg. I do love my bum of a partner, I do! And she knows it.

The job thing is starting to disturb us a wee bit. It’s not pretty out there, people. She’s out there working it, but pickings are slim. I’m doing my part, of course. I’ve been scoping out bridges because I know we’ll be living under one, soon. I’m trying to find an under-bridge that isn’t too dank or dreary. A cheery nook if possible with limited cross-winds.

In the meantime, we’re in bomb-shelter mode. We’re preparing for the end of the world as we know it: an existence supported by income and health benefits. I’ve made dentist appointments for the children and for us. Appointments for the girlie-bits doctor for the annual shmear. Physicals for the boys. A trip to Costco while we still have money in the bank for essentials. Had to load up on tissue, detergent, enormous cans of Roma tomatoes and batteries...for the all the boys’ toys, of course.

On the To Do List:

• Plant garden so we can live off of broad beans, carrots and rhubarb
• Order rain barrel to score points for being green when, in actuality, we’re going to need that water after the town shuts us off.
• Cancel HBO and Showtime...because The L Word and Big Love are over-otherwise we wouldn’t make the sacrifice.
• Apply to various medical institutions interested in purchasing a kidney or lung.
• Post on Facebook that we (that would be the royal “we”) will cook and clean and provide childcare in exchange for shelter.

Plan B is to register at Secret Arrangement and find a Sugar Mommy or Daddy. According to the New York Times Magazine, even 40 year olds can be kept. Seems like the perfect revenue stream for me. Meet interesting people, no strings attached and flexible hours. Gabriella is not in favour of Plan B. I figure, one more month of this unemployment shite, and I’m investing in some push-up bras and going for it. It’s either that or relocate to the under-bridge or live in our little Grey Gardens in New Jersey until someone decides to film a documentary about our riches to rags story and make us famous.


When I dropped off Asher at school today, I had to fight the urge to go into the bathroom and nick some rolls of toilet paper. Of course, I could NEVER do that to a school and a synagogue, no less. (Note to self: carry larger handbag to school.)

I’m sure it will all work out. What else are we going to say? We’re fine. We’re fine. We’re just a little FREAKED OUT at the moment. Don’t you worry about us. Don’t even give us a second thought while you’re throwing out those left-overs that could easily feed our family of 4 for a week. We have neighbours with bountiful rubbish bins filled with yesterday’s dinner. You just relax and have a great night! I insist!!