I'm brimming with goodness. There's job potential, it's officially summer, LA is figuratively (and will soon be literally) on the horizon, and Landon fuckin' Donovan proved that he needs a wheelbarrow to haul his gigantic red white and blue balls around South Africa.
Not actual blue balls, I'm sure. I'm guessing somewhere around 73% of Americans would sleep with that man right now.
Now get out there, position your junk in front of a swimming pool jet, and enjoy yourself some summer.
As these trips would approach, I would become the typical child I rarely was- should I get Chip or Dale's autograph first? Would we swim in the pool every day? And no, I can't clean my plate because how could one think of eating when Peter fuckin' Pan is so close I can practically feel the breeze as we fly over London?
I'm fairly positive I didn't actually say fuck. And my parents never made me clean my plate. But you know. Generalizations.
My dad was consistent in addressing my overwhelming anticipation, much to my elementary dismay.
"This moment is the best of the whole trip. Before you know it, it'll all be over, and it'll be a good time but nothing will get you quite as excited as dreaming about what could happen."
That's not verbatim. I still had a gap in my teeth, and with the understanding that twenty years have passed and me currently being two nightcaps deep, that's the gist. You get the point.
The most brilliant moment in your life still won't make your heart race like it did when you imagined it the day before.
And that's not a bad thing. But as adults we learn that this is a double-edged sword. Anticipation is a magical feeling, but if allowed to manifest without restraint, even great experiences are followed by an asterisk even if you'd never in a million years admit it's there.
It was great, but...
The key is to separate the excitement and the expectation.
Tonight, the longest day of the year, I am signing a non-disclosure agreement. I'm double checking my driving directions, and trying to find matching dress socks without holes in the toes. Not that I anticipate having to take my shoes off, but just in case. I'd die of humiliation if I looked like the bumpkin that couldn't afford decent socks. I don't have a job interview tomorrow. I have the job interview - the one that would validate my degree, the one that doesn't have a downside, the one that would allow me to order an appetizer without thinking twice about whether it was a special enough occasion.
Generalizations, but more true than not.
That kind of a job interview.
And I'm excited. But after a handful of fool-me-once occasions, I'm cautious on the expectations. Tapping the breaks, here's the truth as it stands: I have a job. I have a bed. I have people that love and support me. And after the handshakes are released and the "describe a time when you overcame adversity" situations are addressed, my life will go on. And it's exciting to think about new responsibility, new experiences, and making actual money. But it's just that, a thought. An expectation.
This weekend I'm driving to LA to see a smattering of Best Friends, capitalization intended, and everything will be perfect because I expect nothing and am excited for everything. Maybe we'll embark on the sort of ridiculous booze-fueled adventures that we'll bring up at each others weddings. Or maybe we'll just sit and talk for hours, making the same jokes that continue to prompt laughter no matter how many times they're repeated.
It's about separating the excitement from the expectations.
A lot could change tomorrow. Or nothing could change at all. Generalizations, but either way on this, the longest day of the year, I'm sure as the sun finally sets that it will rise again tomorrow. And regardless of what happens, I don't feel foolish for expecting more good things just over the horizon.
Conclusion: I need to (a) have the sort of drought-ending sex that requires stretching and a signed waiver, or (b) be taken out behind the shed like Old Yeller because there's simply no hope left.
At this point I think either option is completely justified.
Here's to living the high life -
“There is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable.
The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”
How trite, I know. A song, never our song because there was never a we, but a song all the same, background to a cheesy montage of unrequited god-knows-what. But you can't un-feel. So the song will occasionally appear, I will play a rousing round of what-if, and he will win. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Want more sad-sack? This morning I was turned away from Happy Donut because after digging all the change from my console I was still twenty-five cents shy of my requested chocolate bar, no filling. This shanty sells hard-boiled eggs in a basket next to the register, and suddenly I'm the pathetic one. No donut, no lover, just an empty-handed walk back to where things don't always go our way.
Oh well...the person or the snack, it's likely both would have left me unfulfilled.
Here's to eventually getting the good stuff -
Why do I care?
Rue McClanahan = Blanche Devereaux, patron saint of late 80's booze and lust
My drunk alter ego since 2004 = Blanche St. Patience, an ardent fan of booze and lust
There is your dot-connection. This is why she gets a dedicated post, and Gary Coleman does not.
I hope she's up in heaven with Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty, sitting around the kitchen table like they always did, passing time till Betty White eventually joins them for pie.
Not for any rhyme or reason. But it happens, ya know? Things are just as hunky as they are dory, and then BAM I get a chemical spike all up in my gray matter and let's just say it's best to let the calls go to voice mail. When shit goes down, internally or otherwise, I circle the wagons Oregon-Trail style until it's safe to ford the river. No Indians in, no cattle out. Lock-down mode. You played the game in fourth grade. You know how it works. All I'm saying is that my self-issued hall pass is for your benefit, Mr. Kite.....I aim to keep the bitching to a minimum. Demons come and demons go. C'est la vie.
So enough on that. The long and short of it: I'm crazy but the clouds have cleared and now we're back on the wagon, trudging west toward the promised land. And I have news, and things, and stuff, and all of it worth sharing. Chuck Palahniuk has written that all he does is listen to other people's stories and re-tell them in his books. That's what I'm aiming for tonight. Little nuggets of information that are quick and random as sex on Craigslist.
- If you like Bloody Mary's, you must do this: get a big ol' jug of cheap vodka. Buy a pound of fresh jalapenos, and cut them into manageable chunks. Put that, seeds and all, into the vodka. Let it sit for at least a few weeks (if not months), turning the bottle occasionally. Use in a regular BM (bloody mary, not bowel movement) recipe and impress all your friends with your awesomeness.
- I'm going to take a paddle-boarding class this summer, and it's going to be awesome. No really, I can do it cheap through work. There's even one offered on my birthday. Sign? Me thinks so.
- Last week at work a woman told me that a single goose generates up to a pound of shit a day. She knows this because she owns a business that keeps geese (and their shit) off of golf courses and other public areas. She ended up buying grey boots so when she stepped in shit it would be less noticeable.
- That same day a child came out of the dressing room with a hygienic liner from a bathing suit crotch plastered to her face like a big pussy-blocking mustache.
- I went to the National AIDS Memorial Grove in SF this past weekend. This was not a wise choice given the fact I was on the aforementioned rag, but whatev. Point being I came across this boulder, read the inscription, and promptly lost my emotional shit. I can't even explain why, and maybe that's the point.
- Lastly, today I treated myself to some retail therapy. I'd had my eye on this shirt for quite some time, and given the peaks and valleys of the past week, I felt as though I deserved it. A small reminder of the goodness all around. So of course now I'll share it with you, with the added bonus of big bossy beaver-face to add a little excitement to your Wednesday.
Keep on keepin' on, my little pioneers. It's a long road, but I hear it's worth it.