I write so many essays while high. Just in my own head. All the words I want to put on paper but never actually do.
And I don’t know why. I know I can. I just don’t. Out of sheer laziness, maybe? Fear of not having anything worthwhile to say? I don’t know. I have a journal full of disconnected stoner insights that may one day serve as the basis for more posts.
But not tonight. For now, I plan to do what this blog started out as: the high mom diaries.
Today is Wednesday, August 31. Tomorrow Mr. D and I start our “September challenge” of not spending a dollar on any food other than milk, fruits, and veggies. Mr. D wants to clean out everything in our pantry. So this means no lunches out, no ball-so-hard Costco Sundays, no buying salmon until we finish the frozen cod in the freezer. It all seems a bit draconian to me. (That’s a fun sentence to write! Also, I might still be high.).
Anyway… ugh. I want to say, “Fuck that, I want tacos!!! All the lunchtime tacos!!!”
But I also really want a house. A beautiful house. Nestled up against the woods. With a big kitchen and granite countertops that Mr. D can fuck me on. And a wraparound deck where we can grill S’mores and wish upon stars. And big bedrooms for each of our A’s, who can decorate them with the flair of their distinctly awesome personalities. And a walk-in closet for me. Glorious shoe space that’s all mine! And 3.5 bathrooms. Maybe four! Maybe even a finished basement, or a half-finished basement where we can channel our inner architects and interior decorators.
Ahhh, I can’t wait to live in that house!!!
Even though it’s a good three years away. At the very least. We got a late start to getting our financial shit together, but we can do it. It’s just really hard. Mr. D’s September money challenge reminds me of Sean T’s Insanity workouts. Actually, it’s like skipping T-25 and going right to the second month of the Insanity DVDs, which I’ve never attempted… even back when I was doing them for months, trying to lose the baby weight from Little A.
I’ve just never been motivated enough to push harder.
Frankly, even with this blog, I just feel complacent. It’s part of the reason I’m not writing. A few months back I promised to write like a motherfucker. But I’m not. Not at home, not even at work. I’m in this weird funk. Although I did get The Empress in a tarot card reading last week, and I definitely see it as a good sign. Especially with the rest of the reading, which more or less said to let go of negative thoughts and oh shit! I literally just found this interpretation of my final card:
The reversed Ace of Cups is a positive omen, but in general you may be feeling a bit stuck. Know that with your time and attention, you can resolve most blockages.
(Sebastian, next time you do a reading, you need to use this site: http://www.psychic-revelation.com/reference/q_t/tarot/tarot_cards/index.html)
Anyway, the tarot reading is an essay for another day… Tonight I’m writing about money.
I want more of it.
I want a nicer house. I want to surprise the kids with a trip to Disney like my coworker just did. I want to vacation in Australia and see the Great Barrier Reef before climate change kills all of its coral.
And I know that getting there means changing our money habits. (It could also mean a better-paying job, or actually attempting to make money off this damn blog, and that’s something I think about a lot, too. About work. About my general professional malaise. About my dreams as a writer, and the things I’d need to do, the hustle I’d need to awaken, to make this site successful.)
I was thinking about this all on my run tonight, channeling Lil Wayne and feeling hyped on ambition. (“I’m the best to ever do it, motherfucker, I know it; No ceilings, got dammit, now the fuckin sky showing! Uh!!”)
When I came home, Mr. D was just getting out of the shower. I hopped in after him, and by the time I was done, he was already outside, on the non-wraparound deck of our bat-infested condo, packing a bowl as the kids watched TV behind the curtains.
It was a still, grey, beautiful summer night. Mr. D started rapping DMX. “It’s the calm before the storm/ Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, it’s getting warm.”
I hit the bowl once. That’s almost all I ever need. Just enough to feel the high when it comes.
Tonight it came while the kids were brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. It was the cannabis equivalent to a glass of wine. Maybe a glass-and-a-half. If there were a comparable sobriety test, I’d definitely blow less than a .08.
Anyway, the rain had started to come down. Strong but not overwhelming. I debated running out to return the Redbox DVD I had rented earlier for Big A. (And I had such an awesome day with her! I spent a good portion of it working from home, but we also went to the doctor’s to check her fever and cold—a low 99, to be treated with rest and OTC allergy meds—and then to our favorite bookstore, where she found the two Magic Treehouse books she was searching for, and I snagged a $5.50 copy of Swamplandia.
Anyway, Big A and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and picked up some chicken soup and the Redbox. I figured it was cheaper than renting it off the TV, and I could get some work done. Which I did, though we got in some great time together, too. We read the full “Summer of the Sea Serpent” book, and I pestered her about playing Carcassone with me (she refused), and then we spent almost an hour cuddling on the couch. It was perfection. Maybe it had something to do with the penny Big A had found earlier in the day, the one she held all through her doctor’s appointment for luck. Which seemed to rub off on both of us because today was as good as a day can get. I loved every minute of it with you, Big A. We should do these more often.)
But anyway… I was debating whether to drive in the storm to return the DVD while the kids got ready for bed. With the 24-hour rental, and Mr. D’s morning conference calls, and all the outstanding shit I still need to finish before my next deadline, there was just no way either of us would be returning it before 1pm tomorrow. Was driving in lightening worth the $2?
I decided it was. And I felt fine to head half a mile down the street.
But by the time I got there, the rain was barreling down. Shoppers actually lined beneath the store’s awning, waiting for it to subside before braving the torrential journey to their cars. I had parked sideways in a handicap spot, thinking I’d dash in and out in seconds.
But was the DVD even worth it? And did I want to risk wet hair? And how dumb would I look getting soaked just to run in for a Redbox? And what about this damn spot?
I couldn’t stay there. I reversed out and almost drove back home. In fact, I was ready to leave when I saw a few cars entering the shopping center. The storm hadn’t stopped them. And I thought of Little A, mere months ago, picking wildflowers in the Colorado mountains. “Flowers don’t have jackets,” she said, “but they’re okay in the rain.”
Such wisdom. I had channeled it this past July, on the second shittiest day of my work life, after an afternoon run at the gym, when I realized the then-literal rainclouds over my day were a metaphor of my own choosing, and I chose to be a Colorado wildflower. To strut in the rain, soaking wet, with Beyoncé-level fierceness and a strengthened resolve to tackle the ever-loving shit out of my day, and let things be (not knowing at the time that they’d actually, ultimately, work out).
“Don’t let the rain stop you,” I reminded myself tonight, as I moved my car to the front of the store, braved the elements, and sprinted inside. I lost one flip flop in the process and had to run back into the middle of the road to get it.
But I saved that $2. Down payment money for the house of our dreams. A house with skylights.
No ceilings, motherfucker.