So I was thinking today, about my familyís used 1972 station wagon in which we, as a family of seven, would tool around town.
You know the kind. Larger than a blue whale, ugly-as-sin imitation wood paneling, the kind of folding up rumble seat in the back that faced the back window so you could make faces at people who were tailgating. And when you swung open that door way in the back to say, load groceries, the old worn out hinge would moan and rat-a-tat-tat like a machine gun but only a lot louder?
That was always fun, opening that rusty back door in a public parking lot, mothers grabbing their children and ducking for cover at the sound of mock-gunfire.
Yeah, that was good times.
At least looking back it was.
Which is todayís topic: perspective.
Because to an eight-year-old, it was, well, in a couple words: waaaaay embarrassing.
Yes, at the time, that kind of thing would make you want to crawl up the rusty tail-pipe and die when people stared. But when you are all growns-up*, you can look back and realize just how fucking hilarious it is.
I mean, crappy old station wagons make for funny memories. It makes me feel a bit sorry for all the kids now a days cruising Ďround in the shiny new SUVs and Mercedes mini-vans.
I mean, who has found memories of a Mercedes mini-van?
Makes me sad I spent so much time worring about something so stupid as being seen in a rusty old station wagon.
Now, the old rusty bigger-than-two-blue-whales-put-together-louder-than-a-garbage-truck-on-patrol Suburban** I was made to drive to high school on occasion may take another decade or so to get over.
I jest! I adored the way the rain and sleet would splash upon my feet through the rusted out floor-boards every time I hit a puddle!
The point is: I was happy to have wheels, ladies and gentlemen. Happy to have wheels. ***
Which is why I am just dumbfounded when my friends who teach all talk about how the studentís cars are much nicer than the ones they drive. I am not saying this is everywhere, but once again Ė will these kids look back and have found memories about their very first Lexus? I donít know.
Anyway, old-lady-when-I-was-your-age dialogue aside, I meant to be writing about this fucking wild rice and chicken salad I have been trying to create all night.
Between that and trying to rid my place of all dust bunnies, I am going a wee bit mad.
You see, tomorrow night I am hosting the infamous Book Club. You know, the one I bring up every month or so? Yeah, that Book Club.
But since no oneís been reading much, and itís more an excuse to just drink and be stupid on a school night anyway, I have deemed tomorrow night Rock Star Night!
Basically, everyoneís bringing some Cds over to swap and such.
Yeah, I know, lame. Whatever!
The bad music - itís all the ammunition I got, people! Work with me!
You see, last months shin-dig, The Big and Tasteful Book Swap as hosted by my good pal Macie, was very nice and chi-chi and to-do-la-la with her matching margarita set, huge apartment and the fact she just happened to have like, three kinds of cooking salt and pineapple/marichino cherries to garnish frou-frou beverages on hand. Because you see, Macie is all married and stuff and that means she had the chance to have a big reception party-type thing a couple years back where people came and danced and threw tea sets and stainless steel martini shakers, vegetable steamers, matching dishware and china gravy boats at her.
What never-been-registered at Marshall Fields single gal can compete with that?
Not me, thatís who!
So, while I am in my kitchen trying to boil rice on my teeny gas stove and getting it all over the fucking place, and fretting over the fact I am everything-shy of a decent hostess because I donít even think I own a serving spoon, you can bet your ass I am plotting a party where as I turned thirty-five while retaining my single-status, I will throw myself one huge goddamn reception and feed people at some nice hall so I can get some of the booty all you marrieds enjoy!
Or something. Honestly, itís not a big deal at all, and just plain funny to talk about Ďcause I really do realize when I wake up tomorrow and I still donít own a gravy boat, I am still a good person.
Fuck the gravy boat! Tomorrow night, I am just going to throw some bad 80ís pop and diva-like dance hits and a lot of hard booze their way, and you just see if they donít have the best goddamn time of their lives!
Lots and lots of Booze + Bad Pop Music + furniture thatís okay to spill on = Single Lady party success!
You see, itís all about perspective.
Now if youíll excuse me, after I scrape the boiled over rice off the stove, I have to figure out how the hell I am going to fit twelve people into my tiny-ass studio apartment.
* I use that loosely. Very loosely.
**that is forced to drive when the diesel chevette was in use by my sister. Thatís right, I said diesel chevette people. I am certain here was only one on the entire planet and somehow my parents found it, purchased it and deemed it teenage-cruise worthy. But I tell you, if you can learn stick on that fucker, you can learn stick on any car. And the gas mileage! Forget about it! I could drive like, 500 miles on one 12 gallon tank. Hindsight: good for the teenage budget. Not so good for the ego, but life is about comprise.
*** and I use ďwheelsĒ in that ironic post-Happy Days-Fonzie fashion, of course.