Nothing blows harder than having the wind knocked out of your sails. There you are, slumped over, not going anywhere, drifting aimlessly, flaccid on placid water. In my case, likely seasick as well. Sailing is only sexy until you are puking in a plastic bag. And that was after the Dramamine...and the barbecued clams and Red Stripes. Not my first sail but, so far, my last. I prefer yachts, anyway.
All metaphorical boating and barfing aside, today was a bit of a bummer. I can't say that nobody died because, as it turns out, my friend's grandmother did. So I can't really bitch about my day. I mean, I can. That's sort of what this blog is for. Or at least lately it is.
There was really nothing I could do to alter my mood. I was told I had to wait a little while longer for the answer I've been waiting months for. We've all been there. Hurry up and wait. And I dare you not to anticipate in the process. I anticipate everything. Occupational hazard, having been an assistant in Hollywood a little too long. I couldn't take the day as it came. I was expected to know how it would go. Now, it's simply a bad habit of mine. On top of it, I'm a natural pre-planner. We can totally book lunch a year in advance. I'd prefer it that way, actually. It's a sickness. You should have seen the menus I made just for a camping trip. No snack was left unconsidered. Munchies were bought for every possible mood and weather condition. I need help.
In an attempt to shift my mood, I got my car washed. This is rather newsworthy, as I wash my car about four times a year. Partially for the environment. Partially because I have street parking and a wash lasts about ninety minutes. I even sprung for the "luxury" scrub. Not that I can ever tell the difference between the basic and the bonus versions. Except they did my tires. Whoop. I had just had it washed about two weeks ago. Normally, a wash would last months but my car got caught in a veritable shit storm of the bird variety. My poor paint job. One day, she'll get a new coat. Until then, we'll just have to live with the permanent polka dots that remain from letting the turds linger a little too long. I'm a bad mommy.
While I was sitting there, waiting for the wash to be done, I thought, Fuggit. I'm going to hit happy hour. Just me and Mac. The Firehouse has a rather sedate setting and room for my computer. Guinness and discounted vegetable rolls are all this girl needs (although, fries might help today...trying not to go there; been good at the gym all week). Unfortunately, there was an influx of loud tourists, both in dress and conversation. Then the Blonde Squad rolled in and announced they needed a table to be loud at. Happily, after checking out my quiet corner, they went over to the other side of the bar. Yes, I realize happy hour is for getting rather happy and loud (been there, do that). I just need to ease into it on this occasion.
The cool thing about my perch is that I am next to a huge window where I can watch the weirdness of Venice pass by. If only they had wireless internet, I'd come here more often. FYI: I am at the place where Keanu got his muffin before the bus blew up in Speed; there is always something interesting going on here, even if it's just a creative ensemble. And, boy, do we have those by the boatload. And shirtless guys running. Some you want to thank and others you would appreciate them putting their shirts back on.
Life's a beach on this part of town. And one can only have a crap day for so long. Then you get close to the water and let the breeze kiss your skin. Everything will work out just as it's meant to. Or, at least that's what I tell myself as the waiter brings over my second pint and cheap edamame.