Day 334
So, I have been messing around with the template of my blog. Turns out my blog doesn't have to look like a 13 year old writes it, well, at least not design-wise subject and grammar-wise I am pretty much an uncool 13 year old for life. While doing this change of template I came across my writer ego. A scary little beast that seems to come up every now and then. So, as I was customizing the damn thing I thought, 'Oh shit, what if this turns out like the time Facebook fucked with the template and features of its site and everyone got pissed?' Umm yeah, pretty sure I have WAY less people visiting this blog than Facebook has using their site to post pictures of themselves smoking and drinking or holding babies and putting updates about how works sucks up. Perhaps, I could add a photo and status feature though where people could post these things. But back on topic, seriously I thought my readers (correction: one reader, thank you I love you) would be pissed off if my blog looked better. I am as my father and mother have said, "Fricking stupid." But, there you have it, the ugly writer ego is the little voice saying, 'You are important! People love you!' I love that little fucker.
Being in my hometown I have noticed a few things. Tonight I noticed that my parents are pill poppers. They even went out to Walmart to get the type of boxes parents store art supplies in to house their pills. They have so many pills they have to write them all down on recipe cards and can call up the pharmacy and order refills giving only their first names as ID. The best part though is that my mother fills my father's pills so he doesn't risk messing it up. But tonight my father looked over at my mother and said, "Umm, I think you are missing quite a few of my pills here." After that I was thinking that I should look up the names of the pills and check out what they do to you, specifically the ones that my mother is fucked up on. But then I decided I didn't want to know, I'd like to think their madness is just who they are.
This morning I had the awful job of shoveling rock. I was stupid enough to think that if I didn't come in the summer I would get out of having to shovel (everyday over Christmas break I had to shovel snow). My parents have a driveway that is full of gravel, unlike their rich neighbors who have driveways that are paved. When it rains the rock washes out into the road, some of it even gets in the 86 year old neighbor's driveway. The other day we came home to discover that not only did the rain wash out the rocks I had shoveled back into place two days before, the 86 year old neighbor lady had swept up all the rock that had migrated to the mouth of her driveway into a pile at the mouth of our driveway.
My parents sent me out to shovel. Not only did I drip sweat, I imagined the 86 year old having no trouble doing the task. I looked over to her yard to find her tossing around tree branches with ease. If that weren't horrid enough there were plenty of people driving by looking at me. And boy wasn't it fun to have the random lady honk at me and to have the postman make a remark about it being a tough job and then proceed to drive through the rocks I had raked up. Tomorrow I am breaking all of my parents shovels.
I should be drinking booze right now to celebrate but instead I am drinking cold coffee and some odd Trader Joes snack food. I finally wrote and sent my 'Fuck you, I quit!' email to Canada Post today, as I had gotten on the schedule at the pub--a job I had last fall until we got shut down. I was so fricking thrilled the pub was fit to re-open, it may have been gross but at least it didn't make me want to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre just to take notes and get ideas. Anyway, I was so happy to finally put an end date on the postal job, this feeling lasted all day (well, except that part of the day that I bought that new flavor-changing gum and walked around saying, "It's just like in Willy Wonka, but it's not a whole meal!") until I got home from visiting a friend to find two emails from the pub. One email said that the new manager wants to call a meeting with the employees this week. I am out of town this week. The other email was just to let us know that the schedule had been retracted. Fuck.
Today I came up with a master plan: I want to have my mother go shopping and buy me all sorts of things that I use like underwear and facial cleanser. The idea behind this is that when she sends me a care package in the mail I won't get 18 pairs of socks, 3 tubes of mascara and hideous hot pink yarn. The only problem is that I haven't yet figured out how to phrase it. "Mom, so I was thinking you should go out and buy me all sorts of things I want because sometimes you suck at sending what I actually need," somehow sounds ungrateful.
Tip of the Day: Having pork every meal of the day is probably a bad idea but I have to do more research into the topic.
-Canadian Castaway
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