Friday, July 1, 2011

Celebrate America

I sort of hate the fourth of July weekend for my own very specific, very self absorbed reasons.

But. This year Imma make the best of it. We don't have a lake/beach/river/weekend house to go to and BBQ and drink and wear bathing suits and flip flops all weekend. Which is sort of disappointing on its own. Why don't we? Why haven't any of you people invested in this yet? We need a place with a pool and a hot tub dammit! (I sometimes pondering sneaking into my ex-stepmother's house and using hers. Her house however is in the far East Bay, through the tunnel. Cringe. No one should be forced to go out there for anything ever. Suburban hell. (Stepsis will confirm this, won't ya?))

Well, I mean, we have the beach house but that's just our regular every day live at house that happens to be across the street from Ocean Beach. Ocean Beach, for those of you unfamiliar, is not some sun drenched California beach where scantilly clad bikini babes run up and down all day. That shit happens in Southern California. This is Northern California. The differences between the two are stark.

Actually: digression: When I was in college the amount of people that thought San Francisco and Los Angeles were within spitting distance of each other was startling. Had none of you people ever looked at a map? I should have lied, but amazingly enough I wasn't as snarky then. "Yep. I go from Hollywood to the Haight in a matter of minutes." Then I read this description of our geo-centricness and realized it was hysterical and accurate. I used to drive my ex crazy by referring to pretty much everything South of Santa Barbara as L.A. "I did not grow up in L.A.! I grew up in Huntington Beach!" There's a difference? It's gotta be completely slight, right? My other ex was from Ohio. Do you know what states border Ohio? ME NEITHER! Nor do I care! He'd insist he wasn't from the Midwest. How he thought Ohio was not the midwest is a testament to that he was an idiot. But even if he was right, I grew up on the West Coast. If it is not that coast or the Eastern one, ya know what it is? MIDWEST. Nevada to Pennsylvania? Midwest. And you know on a map when all the Eastern states get squished together, unlike our Western sprawl? I usually waive my hand dismissively over the map and refer to places as "being in there somewhere" whether Rhode Island or New Hampshire. So I'm just as bad as the Southerners that assumed I grew up in the cliffs of Malibu by thinking of L.A. as next to SF.

Anyway, despite the firm belief by the rest of the country that the beach across the street from my house resembles Baywatch on a daily basis, it doesn't. The main difference at our beach is that it does not have lifeguard stands and people swimming because you're a moron if you are swimming at our beach in anything less than the thickest wet suit you can find and aren't a surfer. You will die.

However: I have already scheduled a BBQ for the beach house for the July 2nd. It should be good. Me, dad, Ange, about 10 other carefully chosen people. And amazingly enough, the weather here is forecast to be around 70. Summer sun! In the Sunset! I won't hold my breath on that actually coming to reality. It'd be great if it did, but I'll still plan on needing a sweatshirt.

I also am going back to my college self after my mom had one of the Sirius country stations on in her loaner car*. I came home and created a Pandora station with some country. I'm not one of those outright country music haters. There is some later Brad Paisely stuff with god awful lyrics that make me want to shoot someone for ever thinking those were acceptable to make. This stuff, so far, has clever lyrics. Nothing like listening to country music makes me want to throw on Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, a gingham top and drink beer outside. (I'm joking. I wouldn't be caught dead in Daisy Dukes or gingham. I do own cowboy boots. That I love. And the shorts are more about hating my thighs than being against them as a thing. Plus I'm on the far side of 25. I know better.)

Seriously though, it all reminds me of JR trying her damndest to teach my California punk loving, completely uncoordinated self how to Cajun two step while she played Kenny Chesney's "My Tractor's Sexy" on repeat and being at Apartment 4 where they had a kegarator and my Cajun ass friends sounded not unlike the cast of Swamp People after a couple beers (one of them does hunt gators for money now).

Point being: I was in a major funk yesterday. MAJOR. Shit just...ya know? Reality is hard, y'all! But I went for a walk at Crissy Field, had a good dinner, took a break from the internet for most of the day, am now jamming country while writing, and it doesn't seem quite so awful anymore.

So a weekend of good friends, beer, good food, and country music seems like it is in order.

*Someone rear ended my mom's sports luxury SUV? Whatever. Poor dude. The amount of money to fix the not even dented but just scraped bumper of a fancy car? Yeah. You don't wanna know. So while that's getting fixed, she has a loaner car with sattelite radio.

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