Suitable for Giving
A Collection of Wit with a Side of Wry
By Jayne Martin
Copyright 2011 Jayne Martin
Smashwords Edition
http://www.suitableforgiving.com
http://www.injaynesworld.blogspot.com
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To Mom
For all those times I neglected
to say ...
Thank you
Acknowledgements
To Margaret Andrews, whose book “Sticky Readers” should be on every writer’s bookshelf. Thank you for your technical expertise, which made this book a reality and saved me from languishing forever in digital hell. And to the loyal and supportive readers of my blog, injaynesworld, many of whom are also some of the best writers I’ve ever had the pleasure to know, thanks so much for your friendship and encouragement. A writer needs an audience, because when a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one around, it really doesn’t make a sound.
Contents ...
The Reluctant Traveler... Or Hell No, I Won't Go
Don't Drive Over the Wet Cow Paddies
Serving Guilt With a Twist of Lime
Wherein I Tempt Fate...And Lose
The Economy Is Kicking My Ass
The “Time For Service” light has been on in my car now for three months. Any time now I expect to see the “Hey – I Need A Little Attention Here,” light, followed closely by an angry, flashing “I Told You So.” My car is not the only area of my life suffering from neglect. I’ve taken to wearing hats whenever I leave the house so as not to expose the two inches of gray roots seeping from my scalp. As luck would have it, I live in a rural area where cowboy hats are considered acceptable attire everywhere, but sometimes I throw on a baseball cap just to change things up a bit. I do have to say I’m happy to see that torn jeans are considered high fashion at the moment because that’s pretty much the condition of all of mine and I fully expect to be mistaken for Jennifer Aniston any day now.
Fortunately, I’ve never required an abundance of food. We have chickens on the farm where I live and they provide a steady supply of eggs. There’s a veggie garden, too, and several fruit trees. What we don’t grow here is easily pilfered from the lands of surrounding farmers, but except for the occasional splurge on a jar of Bacon Bits, meat is a thing of the past.
Being single has some financial advantages in these lean times. Nobody on Facebook cares if I shave my legs, so I save on razors. Also, the bushes growing on my limbs keep me warm in the winter when I can’t afford heat, and I’ve discovered that underarm hairs can be plucked.
Like most animal lovers, my dog’s needs come before mine. If Dixie has a hang nail I rush her to the vet. I, on the other hand, have to be scraped off the front of a truck before I’ll see a doctor. Not that I don’t have insurance. I do. But if I use it, they’ll raise my rates. Which seems reasonable. Someone has to pay those CEO multi-million-dollar bonuses.
I will never be able to retire. I feel sorry for all those who worked hard their whole lives and scrimped to save for their golden years only to have lost those savings in the market downturn. Now they’re just like me, only I never saved a dime. Life as a freelance writer rarely offered such an opportunity, plus I squandered a lot of it, too. I do have a job, so I’m ahead of many in that respect, but work has slowed recently while, conversely, the monthly bills only seem to know one direction -- up. Funny how that works.
To those who say “money can’t buy happiness,” I say if you have money and you’re not happy, you’re just not trying.
Solo at Sixty
It’s the year of my 60th birthday. How the hell did that happen? It seems like just yesterday I was turning 30 and becoming one of “those people” nobody of my generation was supposed to trust. That was a tough one. I got in bed with Jose Cuervo and stayed there all day. My 20th I don’t even remember. It was the late sixties. It was San Francisco. There’s a whole decade missing.
I recently received one of those e-mails that touts the wisdom and gifts of age and asks if you’d trade those for the taut body, smooth skin and turkey-free neck of youth. The correct answer is supposed to be no. Ha! I’m nothing if not shallow. Sign me up.
I came of age in the late 60’s, about the same time as the sexual revolution. I had just graduated from high school and turned 18. To mark the occasion, my mother took me to the doctor and had me put on the pill. Some of my peers received luggage. It was a time of bra-burning and free love and, although I never actually burned my bra, a series of less-than-stellar-choices over the following years taught me that guys were definitely getting a far better deal than I was on the “free love” end. This realization kicked in right about the same time my hormones took a nosedive. Too bad. Now, almost 20 years later, I sometimes think I might like to try again, but apparently you have to fire up the engine every so often order to keep things running. Who knew?
I’m sure I could have married had I just had the good sense to fall in love with someone who was actually in love with me, but I think you really have to want to be married. I could never get with that whole sharing and compromise thing. They always expected me to do some. Though now, at this stage of my life, with so many of my friends divorced and receiving nice, fat cash settlements and alimony for life, it is possibly my one regret.
I spent much of my life as a freelance television writer, which means I spent much of my life unemployed. Last week I saw a homeless woman, all her worldly belongings piled haphazardly in an Albertsons shopping cart, and couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere in there were all her unsold screenplays. I gave her twenty dollars, certain that the only real difference between us was that I had a better FICO score. Were it not for the abundance of credit card companies who were well aware of my complete lack of financial discipline and more than happy to support it, that woman might have been me.
I don’t worry much about the future. Maybe at my age I should start, but in truth not one moment is guaranteed to any of us, so it’s best to just enjoy where you are. Also, I am a person for whom immediate gratification is a religion. Sometimes I watch “The Suze Orman Show” and imagine her going off on me in a rage, thinking it might get me to change my fiscal ways. It hasn’t. It’s like watching The Food Channel and thinking it will motivate me to cook. Not going to happen. No, I’m afraid that most admirable trait of socking away money for some future need just never took hold with me. Not when there were so many great ways to spend it in the here-and-now. What if I had sacrificed all that fun only to die before I could spend what I’d saved? That would totally suck. And after all, there’s still that great FICO score. Much better to die up to my ass in debt and having had a helluva a good time. Besides, I’m sure one of those divorced friends of mine with money will take me in.
Junk Mail Blues
I’ve noticed a rather disturbing change in my junk mail.
It started when I turned 50 and AARP sought me out to join them with enticing offers of senior discounts on Depends. At 60, among my birthday greetings I found a solicitation from The Neptune Society for cremation services. That was kind of a downer. I’m almost afraid to peer into the future lest my 70th bring an invitation from what I can only imagine will be a company aptly named “Check-Out Time,” offering euthanasia services – cash only, no credit cards accepted.
I have to admit that solicitations for long-term care insurance sent by the same companies offering me short-term life insurance confuse me, and it’s more than a little creepy to find myself just automatically appearing on these types of mailing lists. I’m only buoyed by the fact that Victoria’s Secret still considers me young and nubile enough to send me their catalogs and I’ve been known to frequently stock up on “Wonder Bras” just to stay in their good graces.
I look forward to election times when my mail is full of expressions of desire from those vying for my affection. Clearly, I am worth more to them alive than dead and that, in itself, is worth sending them a few bucks.
I realized that there is no longer any such thing as “personal” information and that we’re precision-targeted by corporations from cradle to grave. Recently, however, I decided to fight back and took some pleasure in ordering subscriptions to Seventeen and TeenBeat magazines thinking I’d just mess with them a bit. In response, I received literature on the early-warning signs of dementia along with advice that I consult my doctor about the enclosed recommended drugs for the treatment of such.
This may be a battle I can’t win.
The Reluctant
Traveler...
Or Hell No, I Won’t Go