Drove to California for the holidays, dreams of sunshine and eucalyptus and Cali-tastic high temps in my head, and now we’re here and it’s raining and cold and there’s a broken Radio Flyer wagon just outside the window.
Life is so different in my blog filter. There it’s all endless sex and fancy watches. Gucci handbags and advanced degrees. High-salaried jobs working for Google at your own kitchen table. Last week I was introduced to Olga, my mail-order Russian bride. Now, I’m all for Russian brides, though I think I’d have mine Fed-exed in order to save on the travel wear-and-tear. But Olga? My bride is apparently 57 years old, bulbous, red-faced and muttering angrily about Stalin. As well she should, I guess. Maybe a new handbag and a watch will improve her mood.
Somewhere the sun is shining. Santa’s en route and a younger, less aggrieved Russian bride is in his sack, bearing free samples of Viagra and Cialis, Gucci bags and a Rolex just for all of us. Either that or a sparkly new Radio Flyer.