Hairy Loafer

Im faking asleep for the sleeping-selfie effect

Thanksgiving is a holiday where it’s easy to realize how thankful I am for my wonderfully cozy little house because I spend three to four days sleeping at someone else’s.

At 6:45  on Thanksgiving I headed upstairs to our guest room, and put George to bed. Even though he cried and said he needed to go back downstairs, he was snoring by 7. Then I had to bring in my daughter and get her to sleep. While reading to her, I dozed off.

I drank a latte at 3, so when my eyes cracked open at 9, I felt spry. I wiggled free from in between the kids, and browsed a bookshelf. I found a little book called “The Big Secret For The Small Investor” and I thought, this is perfect, I’ve wanted to learn how to play the stock market. I read the first two chapters, and then started having wildly entertaining daydreams that pulled me completely from the text. 

I became ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a successful investor and my future wealth.  My mornings would be dedicated to reading financial Times, drinking coffee and making notes on all my daily stock trades. I would get really fucking rich, like one-eyed Christian Bale in The Big Short.

I wouldn’t be overly flashy, initially. But after a while, there’d be no reason to hold back, and I’d buy everyone those ridiculous hairy Gucci loafers for Christmas. 

They’d all look at the stupid shoes, angrily thinking how much they'd rather have the cash. Then I’d shout surprise! and give everyone a fat check and an accompanying hairy loafer gift receipt. They’d forgive me for the lavish waste of money, and we’d drink Coors light.

hairy loafers cost $1,800 (stupid AF)

I was reading about calculating Present Value, and drifted into another daydream where I’m working at a glass desk with three computers. I’m wearing a silk robe with fur trim, thick rimmed glasses, as well as a phone headset. As I’m reading the screens, drinking coffee and flicking a ten inch cigarette into a massive jade ash tray, I’m chatting on the phone, “Alright, bitch, I got to get back to it. Time is money, gotta spend money to make money, buy low and sell high. Give my love to the mister,” Then I look at a computer screen and watch my bank balance increasing faster than a rocket ship speedometer.

Soon after, I realized this book was boring me, and the idea of being a wildly successful stock trader seems way more interesting then the process of becoming a wildly successful stock trader.

I returned the book to the shelf, and picked up Kathy Griffin's Official Book Club Selection. It is hilarious, no day dreaming needed. I was trying not to laugh out loud and wake up the kids, or at least not laugh louder than Kiki's snore-purr, but that made me bottle up the laughter, causing my body to convulse, simulating a tiny earth quake on the pillowy bed, and shaking the kids. 

Kathy was a later-in-life slut, and her stories about fucking random dudes were hilarious. I only made it to chapter 5 when I passed out, but I couldn't help being intrigued after she talked about housewives being the majority in her Santa Monica Community College acting classes.

The next day when I started looking at class schedules, I had to give myself a slap on the face, Alicia, focus on one flower at a time, fool, or you'll never get your garden to grow.

I'm back to Sacramento, and my razor. Another thing I need to be thankful for, and should never forget to take on vacation. I wouldn't make it another day without needing to find myself a cave to hibernate in. Now I know, five days makes linoleum go to shag.

Whenever I return home from being out of town, I hit the ground running with a fresh perspective and pent up motivation. We put out all the Christmas decorations, started laundry from the trip, set up my teaching lessons for Tuesday, and am planning a writing schedule for the week. 

There is one thing I haven't  managed to get to. No one is calling me a loafer, but they certainly can call me hairy. One flower at a time, here!