Playing Pollyanna

I’ve been whining at you a lot lately. Hell, from the last four months of blogs, you’d think that all I do is give up on boys, clog my drains, and look for freelance work on Craigslist. While all of those things are true, there are some things that make me NOT want to shoot myself in the face. Shall we?

My Mom
While this particular shit sandwichy time of my life could have been mom’s opportunity to inform me that I should have known better than to go into graphic design, she has been behaving in a really supportive fashion. I’m not just talking about her offer to help me out with money, either. During last week’s phone call, she referred to certain unfortunate circumstances as though they were things that just HAPPENED, not things that happened because I took a wrong turn years ago. Maybe she knows that I’ve pretty much got “guilt and blame” covered pretty well by myself.

My Cat
While there are some decisions that I have lived to regret, Murphy (alias Mr. Puss) has never been one of them. There hasn’t been one millisecond in the nine years we’ve been together that I have questioned that decision. Not when he needed 600 bucks of dental work, not when he peed on my sewing fabric, not when he clawed my chairs, and not when I realized that my life is now dedicated to fighting “cat hair tumbleweeds.” Why? Because, when I lie down to watch tv at night, he is always next to me for snuggle times. Because, when I wake up, there’s 50% chance of him still being next to me. On a nightly basis, I’m prompted to wonder how many times someone has tweeted “I have the best cat ever.” Jen and I have both had this impulse, but held ourselves back because that’s “not good tv.”

My Friends
All of y’all. Everybody needs some cheerleading every now and then, and both online people and analog people have been getting me through this with encouragement. Thanks for listening to me bitch. Even though I know you’re not keeping score, I’m keeping track of every drink you buy me and every dinner you host, for when I can repay them. Three years from now, I’ll be making twice as much money, and you’re all getting a bottle of good vodka. (Jack Daniels for Katy and Jim Beam for Lindsey.)

My House
How’s it going a year after closing? You’d think that having a dish washer would get old after a while, but it hasn’t. Every time I use it, I think, “damn, I’m glad this is here.” I love the big-ass spider who lives in my porch light (he’s goth as fuck and keeps buggs from flying in when I open the door). I love my comically large closet. I love the OCD-type organization of the closet in the hall. I love how the purple in the kitchen turned out. I even secretly love the comically small bathroom door opening, which makes me wish I knew more large dudes so I could invite them over and alienate them. “How’s that bathroom door workin’ for ya? Welcome to my world, where nothing fits YOU! This is payback for the huge Xbox controllers! MWAHAHA!”

One day, the big wall in my living room really will have a 60-inch flat screen. Today, I am still standing next to it, arms in the air, proclaiming “I am a 60-inch flat screen!” for visitors. Oh, and full-house Bose speakers, solid cherry doors (with etched glass cutouts), and a 6-foot white vinyl privacy fence with lattice work trim. Hell, long as we’re dreaming, custom-mixed “Mary Kaye Pink” vinyl siding, cutesy millwork, and a Hybrid Cadillac Hearse that gets 50mpg. I can’t drive a car that big, but that’s no problem; it shall be chauffered by my live-in houseboy, Jack White.