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Robyn Peterman

Whoever said life begins at forty must have been heavily medicated, drunk, or delusional.

Thirty-nine was a fantastic year. I was married to the man I loved. I had a body that worked without creaking. My grandma, who raised me, was still healthy, and life was pretty damned good.

But as they say, all good things come to an end. I’d honestly love to know who “they” are and rip them a new one.

One year later, I’m a widow. My joints are starting to ache. Gram is in the nursing home, and dead people think my home is some kind of supernatural bed and breakfast. Gluing body parts onto semitransparent people has become a side job—deceased people I’m not even sure are actually there. I think they need my help, but since I don’t speak dead, we’re having a few issues.

To add to the heap of trouble, there’s a new dangerously smokin’ hot lawyer at the firm who won’t stop giving me the eye. My BFF is thrilled with her new frozen face, thanks to her plastic surgeon, her alimony check, and the miracle of Botox. And then there’s the little conundrum that I’m becoming way too attached to my ghostly squatters … Like Cher, I’d like to turn back time. Now.

No can do.

Whatever. I have wine, good friends, and an industrial sized box of superglue. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, apparently.

All in all, it’s shaping up to be a wonderful midlife crisis …

Jessica Almasy

Good to the Last Death

It’s a Wonderful Midlife Crisis

Midlife’s a journey. Enjoy the ride. Crisis included.

Never knew that life after death was far more dangerous than real life.

Never in my forty years did I think my new normal would be gluing body parts back onto ghosts and hosting a houseful of dead squatters. Thank God for superglue and a strong stomach.

Never thought I’d date the Grim Reaper and that I would be the one to blow it. I mean, how idiotic does one have to be to get dumped by a dude who lives in Hell?

Going about business as usual is not usual in any way. No one is who they seem to be … and to be honest, neither am I. What I’d known to be true has turned out to be myth. The Angels are frightening and the Demons are hot. Wait. I mean not. Who am I kidding? The Grim Reaper is very hot—like a freaking premenopausal hot flash hot.

Now I’m in a race against time and all sorts of unsavory supernatural horrors to save my deceased gay husband’s afterlife. And that was a sentence I never thought would leave my lips.

Whatever. I’ll yank up my big girl panties, stock up on wine, and lean on my girlfriends as needed. As they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get inebriated … or something like that.

With everything to lose, I have no choice but to grow some lady balls. That I can do. I just hope balls will be enough.

I had planned to live midlife in peace, not in pieces.

Good luck to me …

Whose Midlife Crisis Is It Anyway?

Midlife’s a bumpy journey. The ride is a freaking rollercoaster. The crisis is real.

With my life back to normal—normal being a very relative word—one would think I’d catch a break.

One would be very wrong.

With an Angel gunning for me and a Demon in my bed, life couldn’t be more complicated. Not to mention, I’m going to have to make a rather large life choice.

Do I want to live forever?

Does anyone? Forever is a very long time.

Whatever. I’ll think about it tomorrow … or next week … or next month. As long as I have my girlfriends, my dogs, a super-sized case of merlot, and my deceased squatters, I’m good to go.

My midlife crisis. My rules. If it doesn’t kill me dead first, I plan to have a most excellent midlife crisis.

A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis

My midlife crisis. My rules. And if it doesn’t put me six feet under, I plan to live it up in style—possibly for the rest of eternity …

After a Luke Skywalker/Darth Vader moment, I discovered I do indeed have a father. He comes with a hell of a lot of baggage, but I’ve decided to keep him. Not only do I have a father, I have a kickass new sister, a ghostly family, and super powers to boot. If you add to the mix that I’m dating the Grim Reaper, it’s a freakin’ party.

The only thing standing in the way of my happiness is the Angel of Mercy, though Angel of Misery is more appropriate. She’s responsible for almost everyone I have loved, and who has loved me, being taken away. With the help of family and friends, I will track her down and show her exactly what a perimenopausal hot flash looks like in action.

Job: Death Counselor—supergluing ghosts back together and solving their issues is rewarding. For real.

Mission: Bring the seriously evil Angel of Mercy to justice without dying or getting anyone else killed in the process.

Team: A bunch of certifiable Immortals, including one who re-homes vibrators. Yes, you read that correctly.

How to do this? Wing it. Wine, my Demon boyfriend, a houseful of deceased squatters, and good friends by my side will help.

My Midlife Crisis, My Rules

Midlife is definitely a journey. The road has massive potholes.

And the crisis … it’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Being forty is supposed to be freaking fabulous, not fatal.

Taking on a daunting new job minus the description isn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, even if it was to save a friend. Hopefully, it doesn’t turn out to be the stupidest … or deadliest.

Why can’t things stay the way they were? I love my old job. Supergluing ghosts back together and solving their issues is its own reward. Not to mention, I’m seriously good at it. Although, I must say, I’m ridiculously excited for the new Death Counselor’s arrival in nine months …

Adding to my problems, there are four new angels in town who are riding my butt and judging every move I make. Literally. Who knew destroying one Immortal could cause me so much trouble? If I’m found guilty, I’ll be pushing up daisies.

Luckily, my nutty friends have my back and the Grim Reaper has my heart. What could possibly go wrong?

Nothing is impossible. I am living proof. Let’s just hope I live to prove it.

You Light Up My Midlife Crisis

Midlife is madness—magical, messy, and one freaking crisis after another.

With a new job I didn’t apply for and an extended family I didn’t know I had—midlife has become somewhat problematic. Gluing ghosts back together is easy compared to my new celestial occupation. 

The Grim Reaper wants to put a ring on it. Tim wants to be a father. Candy Vargo has lost her damn mind, and Jennifer thinks we’re all sparkly vampires. I’ve been given an impossible task with catastrophic consequences for failure, but it wouldn’t be my midlife without another crisis.

What’s the saying? When in Crazytown, embrace the insanity or go insane. It’s time to lean into the madness. I’m putting down roots, pulling up my big-girl panties, and getting down to business. With one month to succeed, it’s time to grow a bigger pair of lady-balls and play in the big league. 

The rules are unclear. However, when it’s a matter of midlife and death, I’m making the rules. And I will win.

It’s a Matter of Midlife and Death

Midlife is sheer madness, and the facts of midlife are not taught in school. Unfortunately, some lessons are hellishly hard to learn.

I thought I had it figured out. I was wrong.

Proving I’m the Angel of Mercy is turning into a sh*tshow of epic proportions.

Not too long ago, I was a forty-year-old gal with a stable and boring life ahead of me. Now? Not so much. I have celestial siblings who are no walk in the park. Their decisions can destroy my future.

And of course, my predecessor has given me a month to do the impossible or I’ll lose everything that means anything to me.

Gluing ghosts back together is turning out to be the easiest part of my job.

Fine. If this is my fate, I accept. Nothing is impossible if you believe.

I choose to believe.

The Facts of Midlife

Midlife is supposed to be messy, but this is a full-on catastrophic crisis. 

Just when I thought life might be getting back to normal—normal being a relative word—I couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Marriage proposal from the Grim Reaper? Yes.
Beautiful healthy baby? Yes.
Friends and family safe? Yes.
Ghost of my worst enemy sitting on my front porch? OMG. Yep. 

With the ghostly world imploding around me, I’m going to need more than superglue to repair it. 

Question? Am I willing to do what has to be done?
Answer? I’m about to find out. 

To say forty has been an eventful year is an understatement. 
On the contrary, it’s turning out to be a seriously hard-knock midlife.

Good to the Last Death - Поредицата книги

Good to the Last Death - Поредицата книги

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