Ordinary Fallacious Fancies

     My cat thinks cheddar cheese is better than crack.  This, from a spoiled kitty who enjoys delectable delicacies such as tortilla chips, bananas, tomatoes and dill pickles.  Yet, the poor thing has been nefariously deprived of the much beloved Dairy.  Personally, I blame the influence of all my vegan friends. Only now, thanks to a wicked bout of PMS, cheese is back in the fridge!  And making my cat go absolutely insane.

     Speaking of insane, I recently started wondering if I suffer from delusions of grandeur.  See, in my head I'm already totally famous, living in luxury on my gargantuan estate.  Zebras, lions and elephants amiably stroll by my window . . . while pink flamingos fly overhead . . . as I do naked back flips, off the diving board, into a succession of 10 heart shaped pools.  Just ignore the floaties on my arm as I paddle around the chlorine repleted kiddie pool.  Never mind in real life, the closest diving feat I perform is a tidal-wave induced belly flop.  

     Yeah, actually, you might as well go ahead and ignore the majority of my circadian regimen.  Most hours of which are spent inside either a) the bank, or b) the grocery store.  Where I go.  Every day.  Multiple times a day.  Because I am the crazy freakin' nutcase who needs to frequent these establishments at least once every 12 hours.  Funnily enough, this leaves me with an abundance of business cards and surreptitious cell phone numbers, scrawled onto torn scraps of paper.  If you are ever hankering to go out on a date, but lacking that special someone to wine and dine you,  I highly recommend stalking your local bank teller or grocery store clerk.  It works for me every time.

     **Sigh.**  

     I think I really need to expand upon the hangouts in my daily routine. Like, maybe somewhere where lots of rich people go. What are the billionaires doing all day long?   

     Posed with only one logical solution to this problem, I immediately conducted a short poll to find out.  Sadly, a review of the data did not disclose where the wealthy folk squirrel away in their secret bat caves, but rather-- the overwhelming consensus that they are all fucked up, misanthropic drunkards.

     Hmmm.  That's not what I'm looking for.  I plan on being a happy billionaire.  Aren't there any other ones out there?  New plan:

1. Find out where these miserable people spend all their time.
2. Dress up in an excavation outfit.
3. Dig up the gem that must be buried in the filth.
4. Viola!
5. Happy billionaire teamwork.

      So you know, I've decided to embrace my lunacy.  I'll just keep running with those Delusions of Grandeur.  Next comes flying.  Then to soar.

Journal Excerpt- 1998. The Grateful List.

March 3, 1998.  I am grateful for . . .

 1.  I am grateful my cat came home, survived the horrific fight I could hear from two blocks away, and is sleeping on my bed right now.

2.  I am grateful that Theodore offered me this small gig and gave me a  good pep talk yesterday. [Small gig = dance audition with producer for Puff Daddy music video.]

3. I am grateful my little sister and I get along and she will probably let me borrow her clothes.

4.  I am grateful that after missing a zillion classes and breaking all attendance policies, my singing teacher didn't drop me and neither did my sociology professor. [All the others did.]

5.  I am grateful that my boyfriend's mother was nice to me on the phone when I called her at work today; and I am grateful she will let me come to New York and go on a family vacation with them.

6.  I am grateful for all the opportunities I have been blessed with.

7. I am grateful for cheerios and chocolate cake.

Growing up Mermaid, Thanks to the Pie

I finally figured it all out. When I grow up, I'm going to be a mermaid. Not like one of Juan Cabana's tabloid infused monsters of macabre. Although normally I'm a fan of art a la creepy and bizarre, the dead fishskin/skeletal sea monster look just isn't quite in haute couture style this season.

Nooo, I'm going to be the even more awesome kind of mermaid-- the kind who, in tow with her personal photographer, travels around the world-- to swim in warm, crystal clear water, amongst the teaming sea life; striking stunning poses while sunning on the rocks; flipping her fabulous mermaid tail and coyly flashing the camera a glimpse of her sparkling sea-shell bra.

It all started coming together late last night, while I lay in bed with a stomach full of apple pie and a body covered in bovine saliva. A full afternoon spent playing in the dirt at Gentle Barn Sanctuary had worn me out, resulting in a "short" stop at a friend's house who lived nearby. Nearby, which was nearly 50 minutes away, all the way up on top of a mountain, where the closest living creature might be your friendly neighborhood mountain lion. That, or the Chupacabra.

So I got up the mountain, whereupon I ate an oddly delicious lunch of bean tacos and seaweed soup, laboriously prepared by Mr. Mountain Man himself.  My complete gastrointestinal satiation was then promptly followed up with a very nice nap (while he went back outside and did whatever it is that mountain men of the area do at this time of year.) Upon waking from my slumbers, my hungry little stomach then demanded some fresh apple pie, which it was graciously, gratuitously served, and greedily enjoyed. I followed this by plopping back onto the comfy couch and immediately fell fast asleep all over again.

Strange hours of sleep gave way to oddly interspersed moments of consciousness. These fleeting moments, bespeckled like the feathers of the Gentle Barn emu, resulted in some interesting conversation. Ultimately, it was what led to my new aquatic life-goal epiphany. And I kind of think it's a stellar plan. Which makes me think about UFO's. Apparently, there is a place in Puerto Rico where "ufo" (say oooo-ph-oe) sightings are such a common occurrence that they are widely regarded as fact. So much so, that the town of Lajas has actually proposed the building of a special Ufoport (like airport... but obviously not.)

http://www.jerrypippin.com/UFO_Files_puerto_rico.htm

This is just fascinating. Almost as fascinating as the other career option I was briefly considering. In response to my previous blog asking for career advice, one good friend suggested I become a cryptozoologist. Derived from the Greek word kryptos (which means "hidden") and combined with "zoology" (which literally means the "study of hidden animals,") a cryptozoologist is someone who searches for amazing mythic animals such as Bigfoot and . . . el Chupacabra! See, it would be a useful career-- I could totally do all my research on the top of mountains, while eating pie and taking lots of naps. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for all the chupacabras of the world (at least the mountain dwelling ones in California,) instead of stalking them in psuedo-scientific disquisition, I am going to don some scaley fins and join their mythical ranks myself. Just as long as they promise not to come to sea and eat me.

I was discussing all of this with my sister when she called me earlier this evening. We were having a good conversation about how adults turn into adults, commiserating in bewilderment over the misfits we knew in high school who have somehow managed to become lawyers and doctors. These are the same people who, randomly, used to pull bagels and lobster out of their back pocket when they wanted a snack. Now how on earth did they manage to grow up and join the ranks of normal functioning society? Luckily for us, we have got our heads screwed on straight and don't bother with any of that boring kind of grown- up nonsense.

I truly love that although I hadn't yet shared with anyone my exciting new plans to travel the world as a secret agent mermaid, my sister called me up and serendipitously mentioned that when she grows up, she aspires to be a fairy princess. It's kind of nice knowing that, at our respective ages of 31 and 27, genetic minds think alike and we're both still on the same page.