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November 13, 2003
Today is my 6th wedding anniversary and
also my Sweet Baboo's birthday (we got married in Reno on his
birthday so he'd be old enough to gamble - you do the math). David (my 23-year-old) was
kind enough to come over and watch my little ones while Eric and
I went out to lunch and a movie. The matinee was
cheap and we were able to see "School of Rock," which was a lot
of fun. We had a really good time and it was great to be
out, breathing non-kid air and actually having a date of sorts.
His grandmother sent him $50 (which is like $500 to us right
now), which let us splurge on this.
My plan from yesterday actually worked
great, so I fully endorse it as an effective code of behavior.
When Eric came home from work, I had boogie music playing on the
computer (It was a playlist of stuff like "I Think I Love You"
by The Partridge Family, "Roadhouse Blues" by The Doors,
"Mocking Bird" by James Taylor and Carly Simon, "The Chain" by
Fleetwood Mac and other booty shakin songs. I had the
house respectfully clean, candles and incense going (standard in
my house anyway) and when he came in, I pulled him into a goofy
dance and that seemed to set the tone for the night.
It was great to feel silly and eccentric
and bohemian when most rational thinking people would see us as
pretty frickin pathetic right about now, at least financially
(we're pretty cool in every other respect). Josh has
moved down here from Fortuna with his girlfriend, having left
the Conservation Corps and ready to tackle the work force
(yikes), so he and Valerie came over and visited for a while.
Afterwards, Eric and I watched Star Trek TNG (or regular 8pm
date M-F) and then cuddled and talked and laughed until we went
to sleep. As I drifted off, I realized that maybe if I
wanted my husband to be a little happier and take more interest
in me and what I'm doing, maybe I should be a little more
interesting and show a little joy myself.
Today, he woke up in a really good mood,
had to go back to a job they did earlier this week for some fine
tuning and then pick up David from a job interview to babysit.
From there, it was burgers, movie and home again. It was
just lovely and the whole day was very carefree and joyous.
If nothing else, it really proved to me how much control we
truly have over our own outlook and the atmosphere of our day.
I love experiments. :) I think I'll hang with this
for a while. As soon as I get a little cash aside, I'm
going to the thrift shop to see what rather eccentric clothing I
can pull up, hats, scarves, long vests and the like. I
feel cool a'callin my name.
Speaking of The Doors and "Roadhouse
Blues," (I'm quite a fan) I was shocked in about 1999 to learn
that the line to the song is actually, "Ashen lady, give up your
vows." I'd thought forever it was "Fashion lady, give up
your mouse." I thought Jim was trying to talk some society
dame out of her pet mouse or something. *shrug* Of
course, I also was one of about 70 million people who thought
Jimi Hendricks was saying, "'scuse me while I kiss this guy,"
only to find out it was "'scuse me while I kiss the sky."
What are we supposed to do when we're being manipulated by the
very artists who are supposed to inspire us. Are we
really supposed to believe that The Beatles were
saying, "I can't hide" instead of "I get high?"
Supposedly, Bob Dylan had heard the song when he first met them,
also thought they were singing "I get high" and offered
to smoke them out while they looked on puzzled. At least I
know Bob and I weren't the only ones who thought The Beatles
were potheads before he got to them. I also know that Paul
McCartney was such an ego maniac that the first several times he
got high, he hired some guy to follow him around and write down
anything he said because he was so sure he was going to say
something so remarkably profound that it should be recorded for
posterity's sake. I guess he didn't know yet that anything
you say when you're high only makes sense to other high people.
Lord knows we all thought The Steve Miller Band was some really
deeep, heavy shit until we stopped smoking pot and got jobs.
Then it was, "Um, what the fuck is Steve talking about anyway?
Fly like an eagle, eagle, eagle to the sea? Huh?"
I got into a conversation the other night
about pot and a friend of mine said she just couldn't see the
appeal and I was agog. "Jennifer," I asked, "How in the
world can you NOT see the appeal of having the munchies, seeing
a plate of M&M cookies in front of you and have them start
talking to you while you're eating them??" Ah yes,
them were the days. Now, all I do is get honry for about
47 seconds, then fall into a dead sleep. Some things just
don't better with time.
One of the best things about smoking pot
for me in the past was how philosophical I would get, taking an
hour and a half to explain some quantum physics theory to
another stoner, having them nod enthusiastically, say "Whoa" a
lot, then when I was finished say, "Now what?" No problem.
Here we go again...
Don't get me started on the evils of
alcohol versus the joys of sacred herb. It's a really long
story. No, I'm not voting for heroin and cocaine to
be available in candy machines. But... herbs are wonderful
things when used appropriately.
Delena just listened to me singing
really really loudly to "I Think I Love You Again" and made
the mistake of asking what the guy looked like who sang the
song. I was never about Donnie Osmond growing up.
Hated him. My cousin, Delena (a year younger than I am and
my daughter's namesake) loved him but those teeth just bugged
me. I was into David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman.
 
This is David Cassidy
(for those unborn or locked in a barn in the
heated and hormonal 1970's
 
And this is Bobby
Sherman, who is now a paramedic
Neither one of them is
looking too shabby. Age check reveals: Bobby Sherman
is FREAKIN 60 YEARS OLD! (As old as my MOTHER was when she
died this year). Good god, I'm going to need a moment here
to recover from THAT one.
David Cassidy is
FIFTY-THREE. Good Lord. Someone pass me a drink.
Forget what I said about the evils of alcohol. Where did
the time go? They were skinny little things, lithe
actually, in hip-hugger bell-bottoms and polyester shirts and
big belt buckles. That means Shirley Jones must be
(checking) 69. Wow. Captain Kangaroo is 76 (not
dead, that was Mr Greenjeans). Wow. Both Bobby
Sherman and Keith Richards (from The Rolling Stones, who has
been dead for 10 years and just hasn't laid down yet) are 60.
I'm 42. I think .
Lemme count. 1961... yep, 42. I thought I was 42 all
last year and got really excited when I realized I had an
extra year. I totally missed being 41 and was actually 42
for 2 years. Man, I'd better get to some serious
eccentricity if I'm going to have accumulated sufficient
weirdness by the time I'm a crone (I've got to have it DOWN by
then, man).
And now the time has
come for me to saunter off to yon boudoir for an episode of
Trek, TNG with my honey. *sigh* It's just what we
do.
Stay cool, my dear
friends. You never know when they're looking.
Loves,
K
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