My 15 year old brother called me and told me he'd written a song about the wonder years, and asked me to listen to it, make suggestions, etc.
"The wonder years?" I asked. "I don't think you're allowed to call them that until you're out of them."
"No, it's about the show," he explained. "You know, Kevin and Winnie and the sixties and all."
"How do you know about that show? You don't even remember the eighties, and even if you did, we were so not allowed to watch The Wonder Years. Shouldn't you be writing songs about Full House?"
I have a new job that I begin in two weeks as the pastry chef at Monroe's newest upscale restaurant, The Brandy House. I will be getting paid what to me is a small fortune to be trained by a man who has been in the chefing business for over thirty years, and will get to learn all sorts of cool things from croissants to wedding cakes to blown sugar to chainsaw ice sculpture. (I'm not kidding). Furthermore, the no-Sunday clause has been written into the agreement (an incredulous thing in the restaurant business, especially when the restaurant is attached to a hotel). And as the cherry on top, the owner (a billionare) has bought the lot next door to the restaurant so that he can expand and add a ballroom for receptions and a FULL SCALE BAKERY. That I get help design, set up, pick out equipment for, and then run.
All of this, plus looming future plans for a roommate and a new car (if anyone wants to convince me against getting a VW Bug or a Honda Element, now's the time). My cup runneth over.