It’s 9:21. My house is a disaster. Most of my laundry is undone. That that is done is in piles in the basement. Because, you know, it’s helpful for all of us to have to run down there every time we need a pair o’ tushie huggers. Exercise and all that, right?
Anyway, I’m tired. I was just going to write some half-assed, smart-assed Facebook status update about how I had decided that TODAY was going to be the start of the Next Chapter of My Life but it didn’t quite work out that way so I’m just going to go to bed and deal with my messy house and my messy life tomorrow.
But then I decided I was grumpity enough to spew a little gunk on the old bloggity. I actually just wrote two paragraphs on how my day got derailed by many stupid, unimportant things and then next thing I knew it was time to pick up the kids from school. But I bored myself so much with the whole thing that I decided to spare you having to read it. Poof! It’s gone!
My frustration boils down to this: Today I do not get to go to bed having crossed off “conquer the fucking planet” from my to-do list. (It just occurs to me that my previous statement could be read that I wanted to go to the Planet Fuck and conquer it. No, that’s not what I meant. It’s meant more like … oh hell. You know. Don’t make me work too hard here, OK peeps?)
So maybe this is my mid-life crisis? Because 40 didn’t bother me when it arrived back in January. But now I’m feeling it a little bit. Like … Hey Trish … ever going to, you know, actually try to achieve that Big Fucking Goal that you think about all the time but yet haven’t quite pulled off? Because TICK TOCK, bitchcakes! It is TIME, you silly fool.
Again, I’m not saying it’s a goal that has to do with fucking.
But I’m not saying it’s not, either.
Heh heh …
As I write this, I have to say that there are plenty o’ things that I have achieved. That I’m quite proud of. It’s just the one Big One that hasn’t ever gotten the attention it’s deserved.
I was at the Van Gogh exhibit at the Philly Art Museum with my friend Maria yesterday. We don’t get to see each other with any sort of frequency so we were playing catchup over lunch in the cafeteria. We had to share a table with someone because it was crowded. Our table-mate was an older woman, dining alone, and she was possibly listening to our conversation. And you know what? I found myself sort of embarassed that she might be hearing all the details of my life. Because I probably sound like a poor, slutty loser (but obviously, a cultured poor slutty loser or I wouldn’t have been at the art museum). The conversation was full of words like divorce, bankruptcy, foreclosure, mental health, child support, counseling, cheating, scabs, unemployment, etc. (OK, not scabs.)
Not all of it pertained directly to me but it was sort of glaringly apparent how the focus of my world has shifted so dramatically that I could easily cover all those topics within a 30-minute lunch.
Also, there’s no way to ever be over 40 and use the word boyfriend without sounding like a slutty ho. I don’t know why. But I’d like another word, please.
You’ve all heard me whine a’ plenty over the past two and a half years. And I don’t particularly feel like whining at this moment. I’m just tired and frustrated that my day didn’t quite produce anything brilliant.
Why do I feel like it should? Why can’t I just go to bed and not care? Why do I always think I’m supposed to be doing something bigger? Why can’t I just be satisfied living the old day-to-day thing?
I don’t know why.
But I can’t.
I never could.
I’m re-listening to the Tony Robbins Personal Power cassettes right now. (Yes, cassettes. Can you believe?) I bought them years ago on eBay and never finished them. I’m determined to get through them this time. One thing he says really gets me: In life, most people major in minor things.
Such as … I have to pay the bills. I have to do the laundry. I have to get my oil changed.
And next thing you know, your day has gone like my day did today. Before you know it, it’s nearly bedtime and you haven’t found the time to sit down and draw up plans for the spaceship you’re going to build to travel to Planet Fuck.
What’s wrong with you anyway?
So how to get past … alla that?
I’m not there yet, peeps. But when I find out the answers, I’ll let you know. I kind of already know some of it, but I’m not going to share it right now. I need to get up early so I can start over in the morning. And besides, you’re really not adding all that much to the conversation at the moment and I feel like we should have a little quid pro quo going on here.
Nightey night, Pooh Bears. If you need to hunt down some clean undies, feel free to look in my basement.