SUCKA-SAURUS REX or DEAD KITTIES, EASTER SUNDAY and the DIRTY THIRTY

My Granny’s cat, Tanny, died this past weekend.  You might could guess what color cat he was.  She called me with her shaky high old lady voice (that was somewhat more shaky than usual) and told me her neighbor had called her over to ask her if that was her smashed cat out on the road.  Then he offered to bury it for her.  And people claim chivalry is dead.

 

As I’ve gotten older and less religious, I sort of find that holidays seem to lack something like the magic they once had when I was a kid.  Maybe it’s because we appreciated things more after sacrifice—like going to church or not swearing or eating sweets during lent and eating terrible fish on Fridays.  Easter has become like any other holiday we celebrate that doesn’t mean too much—like Labor Day.  Still, I do like the family get togethers and this year we drank Bloody Marys and decided to head to the salt marshes someplace near Fremont for some nature.  There were birds and it was sunny and we felt like we were someplace very far away and remote.  But then the white trash hoe-down found us and set up camp nearby. 

 

It seemed to be a weird tribe of these awfully loud, fat women sipping beer and picking Easter ham out of their teeth.  They were a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’, flying kites and scaring the birds away.  One of the men folk found a 10-foot long hoe and began rooting around in the water until a park ranger drove over and cited him.  The women made a scene and claimed police harassment and that the ranger had sped down the little path and almost ran over one of the youngsters “like he was breaking up a meth ring.”  I guess the park ranger was threatening enough because they packed up that effing hambone and cleared the funk out.  Maybe he flashed his piece.

 

I think I may be in a funk.  And I think it may be because the Dirty Thirty is looming large.  I’ve always had a hard time with birthdays and I’m not sure why but I distinctly remember thinking the eve of my 18th birthday, this is the last night I could commit some kind of crime and they’d have to sentence me as a minor.  When I was going to turn 21 I thought, awww, now I won’t have to sneak drinks.  And at 25 I said to myself, look, I got another 5 years to mess about and be a loser.  And now I’m on the verge of somewhat of a milestone birthday and all I can think is, I sure as hell do not feel 30.  It isn’t really that big a deal but it does make you reflect on some things.  Where you are in life and whether you feel satisfied with yourself.  Just stuff like that.  Nothing worth freaking out about.

 

Adult fears are so lame.  Like, seriously.  Little kid fears are awesome.  I look back and I sort of think, damn what a cute kid.  Here’s the short list of things I was afraid of:

 

Robbers breaking in at night

Going to hell / purgatory

Aliens and/or alien abduction

Getting kidnapped

Dying

Fireworks starting a fire on the roof on the 4th of July

Dogs

Ghosts

Bugs

The end of the world

Breaking bones

Losing my permanent teeth in an accident

Poison

Disfigurement

 

These fears only flooded my mind at night when I was trying to sleep.  Or at school where the nuns frequently beat the most bizarre stories into our heads.  My mom was probably not going to be in heaven with me, my pop and brother and the rest of the class.  Generally I wasn’t fearful and the things I was afraid of were things asshole adults told me to fear.   

 

Adult fears are far less creative and/or interesting.  Am I going to live up to my potential?  Will I find happiness?  Will I marry the love of my life and have kids?  Fear about debt and loneliness and disease and misery is just so un-fierce and really, really just…yucky. 

 To some degree, our good days and bad days get less fantastic as you grow older.  I read my very first diary not too long ago.  I wasn’t too sophisticated, mind you.  “Easter Day 1984…Today was a great day!  I learned to ride my bike with no training wheels!  Today was a good day.”  One of my bad days read: “Today was a bad day.  My mom yelled at me for screaming and killing a ladybug.”  My bad days nowadays really suck.  Like, hey, so-and-so is sick and in the hospital and might not make it.  Or so-and-so dumped me again.  Boooriiiing.  And my good days…well, those can still be amazing.  I’m glad that hasn’t changed too much. 

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