|Nothing has gone horribly awry today, so I celebrate by joining the herd
||[Mar. 16th, 2011|05:15 pm]
#1, compassionate patient me replies, look it's near over and even if it starts going awry RIGHT NOW, it will never build up enough momentum. #2, Bull Tail caught in a Trailer Door refers you to my previous post. I haven't figured out what I'm going to do with the body yet and am just dragging it around by one arm. Don't make me have to use two hands.)(Before one of you expletive deleteds says "But the day isn't over yet!", I have two things to say: |
So, I will do Decades, what the hell. I don't have enough brain cells left to do much more, but feel the need to write about something with more humor potential than sponges and scrubbers.
2011: I will spend half the year 47, the other half 48. 48 and 24 are my two favorite numbers, so I have high hopes for the second half of the year. Seven and I are barely on speaking terms, so NO WONDER. (I don't expect to remember that I have favorite numbers by the time I reach 88.) I am living in a house that is owned by myself and my ex..and the bank. Although we're finally gaining on the bank. The house is in less than fabulous shape and needs a lot of work, work I'm struggling to afford, when I'm not hyperventilating about my agreement with my ex to start "buying" his share in two more years. Thankfully, the benefits of marrying a nice guy in the first place and being an adult about splitting up will pay off in that department and I anticipate working something out. Unless it just falls down around me and I have to change my name and move. I'm living with a pirate, five cats and an empty hole where at least one, if not two, greyhounds should be. I'm on the cusp of a promotion, which is causing a lot of work, and for a job where I have to show up and deal with other people all of the time, it could be a lot worse. The job makes good use of my skills, is not a bad commute and is interesting. Assuming that, like me, you are geeky enough to find the intricacies of a trash bag interesting. Not likely. But I am no more normal now, than I ever was. And sometimes I can hardly breathe or sleep, I am so stressed out and that is the one thing that I really need to fix but can't find my way to. But I have more friends that I've ever had, SOLID close ones and GOOD general ones and I feel more loved and appreciated and lucky than I have in a very long time. Perhaps ever.
2001: I'm what, 37 now. Two years ago we moved to Kensington, MD. It's our first house and we're very excited because the neighborhood has this cool Halloween event and it's a lot of fun. After years of retail and food service, working horrendous hours for not nearly enough money, I'm working for an association, producing conferences and educational programs/materials. I'm working on projects that are very serious -- food safety issues, country of origin labelling, bar codes -- but the shine of commuting downtown, wearing a suit every day and dealing with bureacracy and politcs is wearing off. After ten years of marriage, the shine has worn off of that, too. We're more like roommates -- having good times and sometimes bickering about stupid stuff...but the bickering is growing, mostly because I feel unloved and taken for granted and can't get my husband to respond to me in any measurable way. I can't remember the last time someone flirted with me...probably about a decade ago...and I feel fat and old and unattractive and am turning into a shrew. I decide that, in payback for putting him through school, I'm going to quit my job and start my own personal chef business. For a while, this improves everything. For a while.
1991: I'm 27 and just married...well, or will be before the leaves fall. I'm living in the town next to where I grew up, working at Williams-Sonoma, after decided that while Marketing Director for a Psychiatric Hospital sounds cool on the surface, it's a horrible job where I, barely out college, was supposed to supervise psychiatrists and psychologists assigned to do sales calls. I'm having a lot more fun, managing a retail store, although not making as much money. But I'm still naive enough to think that money and titles aren't that important, as long as you love what you do. Moron. We'll be moving to Rhode Island to open a new store right after the wedding and I'm so excited that I don't care that it means we have to postpone a "real" honeymoon until later. Moron. I'm working two other bartending jobs to make ends meet and put my husband through his master's degree. At a faculty dinner, a professor jokes that I should watch out -- after putting him through school, he'll take up with a younger co-ed and she'll get to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I say, straight-faced "Not if he's dead." Moron. I completely underestimated my ability to kill someone, and can take satisfaction only in that she was older and not a coed. But that's still to come.
1981: I'm 17 and living in Durham, CT, a ruralish town surrounded colleges and universities, so it's an odd mix of rednecks, college professors and highly educated dairy farmers. I have finally, after years of feeling awkward and out of place, come into my own a bit. I've found a group of friends that is as smart and awkward as I am and when we pool our social skills, we're almost cool. At least if you weigh teacher and parental opinion as much as peer. It helps when your school is too small to field a football team. I'm really good at riding horses. Really good. And it's given me enough confidence to finally stop hunching over my books and wearing clothing that hides the fact that I have breasts. I'm wearing tight shirts and tossing a blond mane and the geeks, at least, are lusting after me. (I'm also the track team's shotputter and I work on a stud farm after school, collecting...specimens, so it's a fear/lust kind of thing.) I'm still a virgin and determined to remain that way, for no more reason than I want to avoid drama. On Saturday nights I doubledate with my ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend, my best friend (which is a pattern I follow for most of my life) and I am alternating between dating gay men still in the closet and being set up with friends of friends. We buy 2 liter bottles of Diet Sprite, pour out a good third of it and fill it back up with vodka and then drive around Wesleyan university, from parking lot to parking lot, drinking and avoiding campus security. I feel fearless and like I can do anything I want. And more than a bit of an arrogant asshole. But funny.
1971: I'm 7 and we're still living in Danbury, CT in a Syrian and Lebanese neighborhood. So, pita bread, grape leaves and tabouli are comfort foods for me and as the only blonde head in the entire neighborhood, I have entire street of Grandmas and Grandpas who watch out for me. I'm so damn cute, I'm modeling for my parent's friend's agency. This is due to end soon, when the cute button nose asserts its true character and I go flying into prepubescence. The highlights of my life are going to my Grandparents house on the lake to swim, going to the library and ANYTHING that involves animals. I have a cat named Madame...which leads to interesting porn star names in my future...a dog named George and a Guinea pig named Do-Be. This is very close to my last year of not feeling awkward and out of place.