injaynesworld I'm really "A Kidnapped Heiress..."

I know I’ve been kind of MIA lately.  I’ve been working.  You know, that thing you have to do for money that interrupts your life.  Not that I’m ungrateful.  I know what the unemployment figures are.  I know there are whole families living in boxes under freeway overpasses.  I know I’m damn lucky to have a gig.  Especially one that allows me to work at home, where personal hygiene is not an issue. 

Interspersed with writing assignments, I summarize depositions.  Any lawyers out there?   I’m your gal.

It is the life of a freelancer  though.  So when there’s work, I’ve got to grab it, because there are a lot of weeks when I’ve got nothing, nada, zip.  Which brings me to the highly effective poverty and stress diet: 

7:30 a.m. - Giant cup of just plain coffee with ½ & ½.

10:30 – 11-ish:   Big bowl of granola with ½ banana or other fruit.

2:00-ish:   Two scrambled eggs.  They’re free.  We have chickens. 

7-8:00-ish:   Large glass of cheap red wine.   Steamed broccoli.   Grilled  protein of some kind (thank you George Foreman).   For dessert, three squares of a dark chocolate (72%) candy bar.

Cheap and nutritious.  The up side to this diet is that I’m back wearing clothes I haven’t fit into in four years and I’m nothing if not vain, so don’t feel sorry for me and start some kind of canned food drive.  I really don’t need anyone’s surplus Spaghetti-O’s. 

I’m pretty sedentary so I don’t burn a lot of calories and I’ve never been much of a foodie anyway.  While I love eating out -- ordering from a menu, being served, no dishes to do -- the whole daily maintenance thing of having to buy, prepare, consume and clean-up food I’ve always found to be a colossal pain in the ass.  I’ve often wished for just a pill that would turn into a meal in my stomach.  Presto.  No fuss.  No muss. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Work.  I never really thought much about retiring, which is good, because it ain’t gonna happen.   There are so many people out there who did plan on retiring and feel all ripped off and angry now.  Low expectations are definitely the way to go. 

Like so many others, I do dream of winning the lottery.  I won $425 off a ticket this summer.  That was cool.   Call me shallow, but I’d like to experience extravagant wealth before I die.   I have a theory that I was actually born to an uber rich family and one day my nanny had me out in the park all snug in my pram.  She had one thing to do.  One lousy thing.  Watch me!   But no.   The irresponsible whore was also meeting her boyfriend and while he was grabbing her ass right there next to me in all my innocence, a woman who would ever more make me call her “Mother” snatched me away to a life of barely middle class.  Yes.  I honestly do believe that.  “Mother” would always say to me, “You’ve got champagne taste and a beer bottle pocketbook.”  Well, yeah, bitch!

My other possible ticket out of doodyville would be to marry a rich guy.  Of course, at 60, that boat’s kinda sailed.  But here are my requirements if any of you know anyone you could fix me up with who fits the bill:  Fabulously wealthy, extraordinarily generous, impotent, a heart condition, and no heirs.   I’ve checked E-Harmony.  He’s not there.  Not on Match.com either.   SugarDaddy.com looked promising, if I could only pass for 18.  

Oh, come on.   Don’t judge me.    If he’s really nice, I’ll forego the heart condition.

I wonder if it’s too late to put my face on a milk carton. 

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