Tuesday, April 28, 2009

LUCILLE! Get yo’ big legs offa me!

In a rare moment of late-night lucidity yesterday, handsome Biff and I were talking about what we’d still like to accomplish with our lives. He has some mighty good goals, one of which is to try to KILL ME WITH FEAR (read: finish his private pilot training) even though I was sort of pushing the ‘why not go back to college and get your degree in something you LOVE?’ angle.

Classrooms are almost always safer places to be than behind the controls of a teeny weensy airplane, don’t you think?

He wasn’t buying it. He’s going for the big guns, and couching it in terms of being able to ‘do some good for mankind’ and ‘deliver supplies to the needy’ and high-falutin’ garbage like that. Bah! All this thinking of other people nonsense is, I’m certain, a screen play around the core reason of ‘I want to fly really really fast and maybe dive bomb a nudie beach.’ Because, really, who wouldn’t?

Yeah, he’s got goals. BIG ones. Admirable ones, if he’s to be believed.

Me, on the other hand, could only come up with this little nugget: I’d like to quit work and raise chickens and write.

Raise....chickens. And write (twee!), cozy in my safe little house, all tucked up under the eaves of my solitude like a hen after sundown. Yep – I like to live large, my friends. While the spousal unit is aiming for the sky, trying to shoot around the world in a flying casket, I am pining for the chance to putter around my wee backyard clucking gently to fancy-birds while spreading handsful of prime corn and high-grade giblet grit before retiring to a sunny sofa to write deep thoughts of longing and perhaps a sonnet or two regarding the antics of my new quiet pets the house spiders.

It's clear, at the end of the track of THIS train of though lies the harsh bumper of this message: My goals suck.

They suck! I’ve stopped dreaming big (becoming a doctor, getting a PhD, BEING FAMOUS!) in favor of some burnt umber notion of simplicity and tranquility. It is far too soon to start the slow slide into senescense, people! Pairing my lowly chicken farmer with Biff’s Junior Birdman seems pathetic and small, selfish and exclusionary.

Therefore, I state now that my new goal is this: to be utterly fabulous.

I’m reasonably sure I know the skill set involved, but just in case, y’all let me know what you think it would take for this middle aged chick to achieve fabulosity. All suggestions will be considered! Hell, feel free to put some of YOUR goals in the comments while you’re at it – confessing them might refresh your desire to achieve!

But do it fast, before the SWINE FLU gets YOU! Soooo-eY! PIGPIGPIGPIGPIG.


(if anyone's counting, this here is post 999. holy shit)

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