You’ve probably heard that old cliché, “I’m a day late and a dollar short.”

Well, I just retired, so I’m 2 days late for my November post and now I’m short by 1/2 my income. 

It’s the second day, and I’m already wondering how I’m going to buy  groceries next month.  Not that I don’t have enough to buy $20 worth of groceries for the month, but I still worry.

My family, all of whom voted for Hillary Clinton, have questioned my sanity as of late. 

I’ve calculated that if I burn a parked car and then point my loaded clam-shell phone at the police, I’ll end up in jail.  The food there is better than a nursing home, and I’ll have more rights.

Just a thought.  I’m still working on completely stripping down my entire budget.

I just had another thought!  I could panhandle by threatening to strip right there on the street if I don’t get $20.  But then I’d end up in jail anyway.  Or under 72 hours of mental health scrutiny.  

I’m a writer…I can’t afford to have my mental health scrutinized.  

I want to live in the same retirement community this human is living in:

Since I’m not insanely rich, that will never be an option.

I have only one alternative:

Why did I retire in the first place?  I tell people it’s so I have more time to write.  

Really?  And how am I going to afford to get my books edited? knows the truth:

I’m still with one, and another one died, but when I left 3 of my 5 husbands, this was my motto:  


It’s the same thing with a job.  I’d rather know when it’s time to leave than to be told, “retire or be fired.”

Instead of a frown and a finger pointing at the door, I received a delicious cake, a nice party,  some fantastic comments about my work skills, and a gift that I can actually use.

Had I been able to wait, this is when I would’ve retired:

I live in Florida already, but frankly this unfortunate truism scares the hell out of me:

That’s what Northerners look like when they’re sitting on the beach in January.

This is what I look like when I’m sitting in a restaurant with the A/C turned up too high:

Yes, that’s me in the hat.

Anyone north of the Florida border is from “up north.”

I don’t want people to move here from up north!  They buy a lot, cut down all the trees, build houses with small windows, plant the trees they loved when they lived up north, and they complain bitterly when it’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and nothing they plant (whether trees or crappy ideas like “that’s not how we do it up north”) wants to live here.

This is Florida.  If you don’t have a lot full of trees and large windows surrounding your house, you’re going to be very, very uncomfortable.  If you didn’t listen to me when I told you this the first time, you’re stupid.  You can’t fix stupid and I don’t want to hear you complaining about your $500 a month A/C bill.  

Okay.  So now that I’ve gotten that rant out of my system, I’m ready to continue.

Perhaps I can take an online course in interior decorating.  I have such good ideas:

Here are my final thoughts about my impending ultra-poverty experience:

Either that, or I’ll be 106 years old, won’t be aware enough to know that I’m not an insanely rich writer living on an tropical island…

…and that ball of fiery rock will be the last thing I’m trying to see.

Until then, I’ll be haunting the bread outlets, standing in line with my friends for free food, and hoping that my 1992 Chevy will last long enough for an efficient cross-country mass transit system to be built.

That, by my calculations, will probably be completed 39 years from now, a year before the asteroid hits.