May 22 • 09:02 AM

Screenplay writers wanted for new memoir

September 08, 2010
'Drink. Smoke. Cry.'

That's the catchy title of my new memoir and false, under no circumstances will I allow Julia Roberts to play me in the movie. I'm much more realistic. You know. Just about as realistic as the person who has a life that is so very rotten they can afford to escape it for a year trotting around in Italy, India and guys trailing her every move. That's really realistic. Yeah. Very.

But just in case you can't relate, my memoir's juicier than Eat Pray Love. None of this non-calorie counting, hot-guy enticing, no bills to pay globetrotting wonderland of sensual pleasure with no ramifications.

Mine's filled with the real life drama that my title evokes. The kind of stuff that makes you want to Drink. Smoke. Scream.

Like the thinly veiled misogynist attitudes that remain prevalent and the sexist approach women encounter every single day.

Those attempts at "boyish flirtatiousness" that were cute for about a half a second when I was say, 20, and so was the "boy." At 50-plus, these things aren't so cute anymore. It's not flattering, it's not funny, it's just annoying and embarrassing. Tell me, who needs hot guys in fountains when you can have all that?

The feigned coquettish attentions of lifelong philanderers and over-and-underaged men...that's the epic stuff of my memoir. For all to see. The machinations of daily interaction required to be polite in an impolite world.

Nothing is off limits in Drink. Smoke. Cry. Readers will be treated to grocery store scenes where oblivious shoppers plant their carts center-aisle and gaze undisturbed at the ketchup shelf, a polite—if not hurried— "excuse me" ignored. I describe in detail the creaking of the splayed wheels. The slow inching up to the abandoned cart. The sound of the second hand as the clock ticks away. The frenetic pace of a workday and and the things to do both before and after, including stop at the grocery store for cat food and Drano.

Readers can visualize my weathered hand reaching for the handle of leisure-time person's cart and giving it a nudge forward before the oblivious shopper's eyes meet mine with disdain. "Oh. Sorry."


In Drink. Smoke. Cry. you'll learn about the wonders of Lean Cuisine and Boca burgers. The delectable aroma of microwaved food on the fly. The soul-cleansing nourishment of a Weight Watcher's frozen treat.

Then there'll be the nights. The starry, inky nights viewed without choice or option as the electricity fails. The shimmering waters accumulating in the basement as a gentle rain washes the earth clean and finds its way into the very pit of my beloved sump hole.

And ladies, the realism doesn't end there. Forget about Javier Bardem, Drink. Smoke. Cry has "Handyman." Sweat stained, grunting, the whole bit. Nothing is left out here. It's tepid. Bawdy. Undesirable.

Travel along with me as I Drink. Smoke. Cry my way across northern St. Clair County. Take a leisurely stroll down the lively streets of Capac and a venturesome foray into the Allenton nightlife.

If, by the time you're done with my memoir, you don't want to Drink. Smoke. Cry, I'll give you a full refund, no questions asked.

Mostly, though, I bet you'll know what I mean. With deep ponderings stolen from a megamart bag of broken fortune cookies I take my readers on a spiritual journey like no other.

"Something will happen to you today." "What goes around comes around." "It is what it is," "@(*$ happens," are among the wit and wisdom you'll find in Drink. Smoke. Cry.

In fact, I bet those who made it this far want to try the title out for themselves.

Email Catherine at

Catherine Minolli is Managing Editor of the Tri-City Times. She began as a freelance writer with the Times in 1994. She enjoys the country life, including raising ducks and chickens.
Castle Creek
Milnes Ford
05 - 22 - 19
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