$$$$

As coffee steamed in our Garfield mugs, the bf and I mused, "Wouldn't it be nice if we could go to Santa Cruz, get to the ocean for awhile?" Already I could see us zipping through the forest with something inoffensively jangly on the radio, wind whipping tendrils of hair around our smiling faces, and the faintest whiff of saltwater beginning to scent the air. The trunk is filled with Mexican blankets, film cameras, and good intentions. Whose car is that, I wonder, transporting us through this dream? Neither of us have one, nor could we afford to get one even if we pooled our resources, not with the prices of insurance and gas... Amtrak prices, too, are exorbitant. Flying is out of the question. Do all the people who ask me to come visit them have rich parents or real jobs? Does travel to them require no more thought than remembering to put the tickets in their pockets? So many dream canvases are ruined this way, punctured and ripped through by a sharp and intimidating dollar sign. I wish I had some money-- not a ton-- just enough to leave town if I felt like it, and buy some nice Christmas presents for the people whose generosity I've probably exploited while "living on my own."

Someday when I'm rich and famous for blogging, gluing googly eyes onto inanimate objects, and fretting inside my duplex, there will be some kind of grand repayment to all those people that make my life easier, probably in the form of an awards banquet/ comedic roast hosted by Alf where there are ostentatious giveaways under the seats ala Oprah. Until then, I'm hoping for an It's A Wonderful Life inspired rediscovery of all the things and people in my life that are precious after a frightening journey led by an unearthly visitor conjured by my own childish complaints.