fun weekend, with roe
Saturday night I went to a super-fun party. Then, Sunday, after all the hungover people made it out of bed, I went to the lake with Tad and some of his family.
I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed being in lakes. When I first left my marriage, the only thing I missed about it was the boat and riding said boat on the lake. (My lawyer asked if I wanted to do a hostile takeover of the boat during the divorce. I said no, because I didn’t have a vehicle strong enough to haul it. Really, King Solomon looked down from on high and whispered to me that if I really loved the boat, I would let it live with the ex-spouse who could care for it better.)
So we went out in Tad’s brother-in-law’s boat to a tiny sandy island somewhere in the middle of the San Jacinto river. The bottom of the river was made of clean, soft sand, and we scooped up handfuls of it to exfoliate ourselves under the water. Tad found a big black clam. He also mooned fellow boaters. All this was amusing — almost amusing enough to distract me from the fact that whenever I’m surrounded by Tad’s people, I sort of feel like Godzilla. Godzilla with big french-pedicured feet, in a big cobalt blue swimsuit. For a fleeting second, I wondered if I should chase Tad’s family around, pick them up and eat them one by one (his tiniest, daintiest, most ladylike cousin first), until Tad himself would let me carry him to the top of the Empire State Building and then sing me a song to soothe my savage soul. But then I decided to quit being overtly insecure and to enjoy the sun and water.
The island had an inlet where the sand was even softer. Tad and I flopped down on our stomachs at the edge of it, then lay there silently, half in and half out of the water, like the prehistoric creatures must have done when they took a break from making the transition from fish to mammals. After a little while, Tad said, “Look! This place has roe!”
We looked down. A gazillion orange fish eggs floated all around us. They stood out brightly above our hands and my cleavage. “The minnows must be spawning,” said Tad, who likes to watch the Discovery Channel late at night.
In a way it made me sad, but in a way it made me happy, too. We must have squished a million eggs, but a million would still survive. Just like billions of people survive in the world each day, whether they look fat in their swimsuits or not. And the minnows are too busy spawning to worry about how I look. So why should I worry about it? A million minnows can’t be wrong. We considered eating their eggs, but then decided to go for sushi at a later date, instead.
I had a good time.
tarot card reading
Carla at work did me a reading. Here’s what I learned:
- There is sorrow in my past.
- There is hope in my present, in the form of a shining young man, but I have emotional baggage concerning a dark-haired man that keeps me from trusting in that hope.
- There is an exciting proposal in my future. Hell, yeah.
- Right now I’m like the Queen of Swords, which means that I’m witty and smart but also bitter and cynical. But if I practice strength through kindness, quit judging others and especially myself so harshly, and do some stuff with cups and chariots, then I’ll become like all the other Queens, who are less bitchy. There were Queens all over my cards, but the final, most important, most potential one was the Queen of Pentacles. Not only is she groovy and benevolent, she’s also got money to burn. And it looks like even if I don’t try to be so nice, some knight is gonna hand me a cup full of something that gives me lots of pentacles, which mean money and designer clothes.
So my reading looked pretty good. I’m gonna strive to be the Queen.
(When they’re good, I believe in the Tarot. When they’re bad, I know it’s full of shit.)
I bought a lottery ticket just in case.
Maybe people think I want to be a rich and famous writer because I’m materialistic and whoring for attention.
That’s only partially true. What I don’t often say is that I mainly want those things so I can be a better mom. If I could get paid lots of money for doing something (cathartic) that I really like to do, then I would be a more serene, attentive mother. I imagine a softly glowing future in which we live in a nice, safe house here in Houston. I drive my kids to and from school each day. I write when they’re away, help them with their homework when they’re home. Or else we take our boat out onto the lake. There’s no longer any money worry that stresses me out, making me nervously pick at my lip while I drive the car over potholes and snap at my kids when they complain that we don’t have enough Playstations to go around.
They say money can’t buy happiness but I know for a fact that it can buy peace. Look at the rich people driving down the street. Have you ever been in a car accident with a rich person? Have you ever watched one in a traffic jam? Do they freak out and have road rage? Hell, no. They can afford insurance that will buy them brand new Jaguars. Their SUVs have leather seats and little TVs that make their rush hours fun.
Do rich people spend long minutes wondering how the hell they’re gonna fit all their petty errands around their work schedules? No, because they don’t have to work and they can pay other people to do their errands for them.
Rich people’s beds are nice and they wake up in good moods. Rich people’s food is of high quality so they don’t have to get indigestion. Rich people can shop while the rest of us work, so they can avoid long lines. Rich people go to salons and gyms and dermatologists and plastic surgeons, so they don’t have to feel bad in their swimsuits.
I want my kids to have tranquil lives. I want to have a tranquil life so I can concentrate on my kids. I want to get paid a lot to do something I like.
If I win the lottery, I probably won’t even worry about writing another book. I’ll start my own magazine, instead. I’ll become a patron of the arts and promote work by poor, stressed-out artists.
I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. My kids won’t be spoiled little drug addicts in ripped DKNY jeans. They’ll learn to work hard to get what they want. Or else they’ll thank God we won the lottery and they won’t yell at poor people who wreck their Jags. One way or another, I’m gonna make them a better life. Even if it’s only by doing my freaking best at an insurance company for the rest of my life.
Okay. That’s all. Just thought y’all should know.
