I don’t know about you, but housekeeping is number 99 on my list of must-things-to-do. Reprogramming the remote control comes before washing floors. Certainly, any other mundane task gets my vote before cleaning the oven.
Recently, I gave my PC a thorough cleaning. I did a defrag, emptied the trash bin, and checked all the programs for errant files I might have downloaded in error.
I also began to organize and rewrite all the pages above the Brooklyn Bridge. They are about me and the features on my blog. Lastly, I began cleaning my blog house.
I had no idea that I had neglected to put “categories” on 112 posts. I also discovered a trend in my posts. I seem to use one theme more than any other … like last week’s post … Change.
And … Bleeps, Bloopers and Outtakes … are really me changing my mind.
Me… revising, editing, rewriting, and vanquishing whole or pieces of stories to my personal slush pile.
I truly need to do something with poor, hapless Gail. I don’t want her to go through life thinking she has no place in women’s fiction because she is clueless about her journey.
Actually … I think I’m clueless about my journey.
Whatever … While I finish reading our May Book Club selection and do the rest of my housekeeping, please enjoy an outtake from Gail’s story.
Aside from my obvious failings, this book title might be a tad long.
Does Anyone Out There Miss Ronald Reagan?
Or … How I Survived The 80’s, YUPPIES and Six Blind Dates
There are several ways a girl can meet the man of her dreams. She might dabble, post Katherine Gibbs, as an Executive Assistant, have an affair with her boss and force him to divorce his domineering wife. She might become a nurse and diddle with a couple of interns.
One might go the anonymous route and check out the pages of the Village Voice or The New Yorker personals, though I can never get the initials straight in my head and worry, I’ll walk into a bar and meet a cross-gender party girl.
If desperate, she can always run him over with her car. This might not be practical for me, as I don’t know how to drive.
Co-workers are forever mentioning this wonderful nephew, cousin or friend of the family who just came back on the market after that bitch of a wife took his entire life savings. This one I can’t wait to meet. Maybe in a dark alley as he slices the blade across my neck yelling, “I’ll see you in hell, you money-grubbing harlot.”
Of course, there’s always your sister, mother and other concerned relatives in the family.
Usually, it’s the latter. Blind dates are arranged by people you know, who know people, who need to meet a nice girl. “He’s what a catch. Just hasn’t found the right gurl.” Most of my relatives pronounce girl as “gurl.”
Wearing coke bottle glasses and being called “blind as a bat” most of my life, I have difficulty with the expression “blind date.” Does this mean my date will also have coke bottle glasses?
Back in the day when he believed in organized labor, Ronald Reagan was a Democrat. Then he switched parties and ran for governor of California and lost, ran again and won two terms. Never letting any sage brush grow between his toes, Ronnie ran for president three times before winning two terms.
I’d rather think of a blind date as a candidate on the stump, a dedicated, stubborn man who won’t take no for an answer.
Have you ever been on a blind date?
Would you arrange a blind date for your best friend?