The Queen of the Universe seeks thousands of book readers

So, folks, I have blogged about being Queen of the Universe, about my most efficient banana-split-making skills, but I've yet to speak of my ultimate quest.

As queen, I have a limited following, because obviously, word hasn't gotten out yet. If people knew I was queen, I'd have a virtual shitload of followers, and people would be tweeting about me constantly, and that would rock, although I wouldn't know, because, although I have an IQ of 156, I cannot figure out the mechanics of Twitter!

I digress.

Now, once word gets out that I'm queen, let's face it, I can't be going to the grocery store in my Winnie the Pooh pajamas anymore. Be honest, would you curtsy to someone in Winnie the Pooh pajamas?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

I'll have to have a "Queen-like" appearance at all times, which could be a real issue for me, but that's okay. I figure it's gonna be a while before this whole Queen thing sticks, so in the meantime, I need to stay focused on the most massive of quests.

How do I get thousands of people to buy my book, when no one knows about it, and I have so few loyal subjects?

That, my minions, is my ultimate quest.

As you know, the royal palace is severely damaged, and at this time, your queen is living with the queen mother, which is another "real issue" for me. Now, our digs aren't like Buckingham Palace, they're like US suburbia. The queen mother doesn't have her own wing. She's perched on the queen mother couch, clutching the remote as if it holds the key to every unanswered question in the Universe.

Maybe it does.

So, I am faced with the problem of how to fix the royal palace, as the position of Queen of the Universe is, at present, a volunteer position.

SELL MORE BOOKS!

And, yes, my loyal, royal followers, I know this sounds like a pop-up, a 2:00 AM infomercial, or part of the Nigerian Uncle scam, but that is the answer to my royal dilemma.

Holy, royal shit!

Did I fail to mention that the Queen of the Universe is a published author?

I am.

Most of you know that, so I am not telling you anything new, but every once in a while I love that rush of saying it out loud, putting it on paper, or seeing it magically appear on the screen in front of me.

You see, it reminds me of last year when I first said the words, before I knew that being a published author, and fourteen quarters would buy you a latte.

If you don't have a lot of royal subjects lining up to buy your books, being a published author isn't really all that big a deal in the industry. In my head, it's a big deal.

In the real world, not so much.

So, I MUST find a way to SELL MORE BOOKS.

This way, if the royal palace cannot be saved, we'll have a royal bonfire with the existing house (controlled by the local fire department, of course), and put in a royal Doublewide.

Yes, my friends, it's a new day and the thing that country songs are made from.....

Some queens live in Doublewides.

So, I must remain true to my quest and find a way to raise funds to repair the royal palace, and the best idea, thus far, is SELL MORE BOOKS.

There was another idea, but it didn't work, and no, I won't leave you hanging....

Of course I'll tell you what it was.

I had a bruise, in which, you could see the face of Jesus.

Now, I know, this sounds like royal bullshit, and I understand, since I am queen, why you'd feel this way.

Honest to God, I saw the face, but the bruise faded before I could find a way to sell it on Ebay.

Bummer.......

So, selling the bruise with the face of Jesus, is out!

MUST SELL MORE BOOKS.

Please support your queen and recommend The House of Roses, by yours truly, Queen of the Universe, aka Cat, aka Cathy, aka "hey, you forgot to shut the refrigerator," pen name...... Holden Robinson.

I bow to you.......

Single Queen seeks King.........or not???

So, now that I've taken a few days off from torturing myself about the “plan,” I am free to focus on the happenings on this planet which is spinning around me.

Today, I am talking about men, husbands in particular, because, as you recall, I am the newly – if not self – appointed Queen of the Universe, and I cannot help but notice, the throne to my right is empty.

I see an amazing trend. While I am canvassing the planet in search of my husband – who will automatically become king- it seems as if everyone I know is throwing theirs out. In a sense, I get this. Husbands can be an enormous pain in the ass. They make extra laundry, and occasionally chase their bag of Lays with your nonfat yogurt. Some husbands can fix things, but I hear this isn't always the case, and with this, I agree. The men with whom I've had occasion to share my domicile were sadly incapable. Sure, we had tools, but if CSI has ever shown up and dusted them for prints, they wouldn't have found a man's prints on them.

Singlehood has its perks. When you're single, there is always toilet paper, and it is never teetering on the holder, held in place by the empty roll. And, if there isn't toilet paper, it's your own fault, and, since you live alone, no one sees you toddling to the toilet paper cabinet with your knickers around your ankles. There are other benefits to singlehood. You don't have to cook if you don't feel like it. You can eat a Lean Cuisine while standing over the kitchen sink, if the mood strikes you. And, if you've had a particularly hard day, you can eat an entire half gallon of Perry's Banana Cream Pie, without your man leering at you like the freakin' diet police. Another perk is you don't have to hide your new shoes, or the shopping in which they were housed for ease of carrying. I don't have a husband. I have dogs. So, unless my new shoes are basted in chicken marinade, the dogs don't give a shit what's in the bag.

Husbands do.

I had a husband once. The novelty wore off quickly. I gave him back, and eventually the hate mail, from the person to whom I'd awarded this testosterone-filled treat, stopped coming.

I almost had another husband. I left that one during the state of purgatory known as engagement. He was a fabulous turd, a narcissist without good reason to be narcissistic. These are the worst kind.

He made me feel like crap, and I stayed with him just long enough to no longer recognize the face staring back at me in the mirror. When that happened, I faltered in my devotion to him. Not much after that, he announced he was leaving. I cried for an entire day, but only one. After that first day, I wore a shit-eating grin. He was gone, and I was free to reclaim my pre-fiance identity, and burn lilac candles which eventually covered the stink of narcissism. My former fiance left with my engagement ring in hand, and I got the cat and the washing machine. Trust me, this is a good deal. If you ever have a chance to trade your husband for an Energy Star appliance, do it. The opportunities to do this are rare. When God closes that door, he doesn't always open a window. Sometimes you're trapped in a doorless, windowless room, with the shithead you agreed to marry because he was down on one knee and you were loaded with tequila.

Someday soon, I expect, we'll have husband shelters, much like animal shelters. And, there should be an exchange day. Drop off your husband, get a cat. No charge.

If you get this chance, do it. These opportunities don't come along every day.

I'm gonna simmer on the pros and cons of having a man. I'll be back with another excerpt. You know I will.

When one plan goes into the crapper - try another....

Well, kids, the 50-day plan didn't work as I expected. So, instead of bawling, hitting the vodka, or playing in traffic, I developed a Plan B. This is what Plan B is for. If not for Plan B, the vodka shelves would be empty and the highways would be littered with the bodies of those whose Plan A failed miserably.

Mine did.

Okay, so on to Plan B. Plan B is a bit more modest, with a time cushion built in for unexpected delays. Plan A was an unexpected delay. It basically amounted to a delay caused by spending useless energy on Plan A.

Plan A sucked.

Plan B is better.

So, Plan B involves me living in Binghamton for a full year, instead of just a few months. This means I can remedy the issues at the cabin gradually, and won't have to move back into a house that, in its present state, affords an exciting year round camping experience. Anyone who's camped understands this. Camping grows old about day three. The beer runs out, the marshmallows get stale, you actually have to walk someplace to get wood, and swimming in toxic waste, no matter how refreshing, has lost its appeal.

So, Plan B is a far better plan. For now, I will focus on working on my numerous novels in process, and learning more about my new job in food service.

Oh, yes, did I fail to mention I have a new job in food service?

I do.

I'd have never thought that twenty years in banking would prepare me to one day make the perfect banana split, but it has. I knew the industry drove me bananas, especially the dark years, and I've discovered if you take those bananas, add ice cream, toppings, nuts, and three cherries, you've got yourself a damn good dessert. Acceptable transition. Mortgage Goddess, Unemployed - yet still fabulous - aspiring author, Banana Split Queen. Sounds good to me.

Besides, if you consider how many people have no jobs, and are on Plan N of trying to get themselves back to work, we banana split makers have it pretty good. We're employed, we work three feet from a veritable vat of hot fudge, and our work environment smells great!

So, aside from struggling with the mechanics of Plan B, life is good. I only had seven hot flashes yesterday, down from about a thousand the day before.

I'm improving with age.

More later..........