I am making a sign for my parents' car that says, "For Sale Really Cheap" and our phone number.
"Should we get some Ruffles?"
"No, because we'll get depressed and eat them all in one afternoon. Get some cookies we don't like, they'll last longer."
I want to play Monopoly, but only with someone who will let me win. My sister always beats me, always. I could have all the good properties and a thick Emergency Fund and she'll still win because she's lucky and I am not lucky and there is no Justice-capital-J in this World-capital-W.
Yesterday James and I went to see AS YOU LIKE IT, the outdoor production in hawreluk park. When I got home I wanted to check a couple of the lines, so I checked if I own a copy-- and I do. It was published in 1919 and is in terrible shape. It looks like this:
And inside someone had written
Arthur and Jean Bovair, with a backwards 'j', had also signed their names in it elsewhere. I guess they got their money's worth.
I'm not sure why, but I like other peoples' books.
This morning Angie phoned me to let me know there was a quarter of a bottle of rum in the cupboard in my basement where we keep our movies. I went and got it and poured it down the sink. I'm glad she remembered.
"...I like the idea of eating chocolate cake for breakfast."
"THAT REMINDS ME! I HAVE TO MAKE JELLO!"
"WHY DON'T YOU GO DO IT RIGHT NOW?"
Thanks to my sister's brilliant advice, I now have delicious lime jello for breakfast. Yum.
Why I'm up so early, however, is a question for greater minds than mine. I mean, from now until July 18th (that's a long time in human years) I have to work only ONE DAY. This coming Tuesday, from 9-5.30. Other than that I'm FREE. So please please let's do stuff.
You know, I hate my job. Since it's something I have to do (money, ya know), I try to tell myself I don't mind it, and sometimes I almost believe that. There are perks, definitely: the aforementioned money that lets me buy Gigolo Aunts CDs, the customers who ask me "Where can I get a Pez shirt?", getting to read every new issue of PEOPLE without having to subscribe, and Canada Post's dazzling array of stickers. I have good days, where everyone is civil and I come and leave ontime and get paid more than mimimum wage; and then there are nights like tonight.
I wandered down the aisles at quarter after nine, waiting for the customer from hell, staring blankly at fake plastic plants (why does my store have fake plants? no one ever buys them, ever), party favours, miniature cribbage boards, and packing tape. A scrubbed-looking young blonde kid pounded on the door shouting, "CAN'T I JUST BUY SOME CIGARETTES?" and I told him, semi-politely, that we were closed, then added outloud, "and besides, you're, like, ten." And it suddenly struck me that I'm tired of walking to the bank through the rain to make deposits, tired of emptying half a dozen garbage cans that smell like macdonald's, tired of running out of loonies, and tired of spending an extra twenty minutes at work after the end of my shift (that i don't get paid for) because some customer doesn't know the postal code of the parcel she's sending and her kid has to go to the bathroom. I'm tired of all of it. I'm tired of being underappreciated, I'm tired of doing too much work for too little money, I'm tired of never getting overtime pay, I hate the amount of noise the air conditioner makes, I don't want to have a chronic headache anymore, and I'm tired of selling cigarettes and laxatives. I'm tired of all of it.
So I sat down on the (dirty, disgusting) floor and talked to this little girl in a fabulous pink hat about the monsters that live in her wall and a mosquito she met in our bathroom, and as I stood up I KNEW that i am going to find another job. Yes, they depend on me; but they shouldn't. I don't get paid enough for them to depend on me, and I'm not letting my overwhelming, oldest-child sense of personal responsibility control me any longer. I'm fucking sick of it.
The reigning queen of retail steps down. I'm finding another job. I want to do some other menial task for awhile.
Besides, I'm a genius. I make good cheese biscuits, speak three languages, and can do mental math in my head (you know, as opposed to the kind of mental math you do OUTSIDE your head). I have a good sense of humour. I have an extensive knowledge of pop music from the 1950s and 60s. Also, according to ALL ABOUT YOU magazine, my crush style is "Miss Popularity," my "summer sitch" is "money-making machine", and my room vibe is "crazy and chaotic", making me the "diva of disorganization". In theory capitalism should be rewarding me for all of this.
i don't have to work tomorrow night, and i want someone to go out with (friends? old boyfriends? strangers?). these are possible things i want to do: (a) go to mail art exhibit at the library (b) watch spanish movie at princess (c) eat pizza (d) go to the bar (e) not work. i'm fun. please call me. (4870522) thank you.
also, it's fucking cold in this house and my toes are freezing and i have done nothing today except play mah-jong and eat oatmeal cookies. and you know that's not right.
three years ago: "I hate multiple choice tests, because in Chem you're expected to calculate the answers and then pick a multiple choice answer. This sucks for the lazier members of the audience as its WAY easier to just pick one and hope it's right (which is usually my choice). Thus, a failing mark."
two years ago: "fact: i have hip new black glasses. myth: i am a freaky mutant robot insect."
i shouldn't have tried to hunt down an entry from a year ago, because now i'm crying. well, forget it:
one year ago: "we're going to my grandparents'. i wasn't going to go-- actually i thought maybe you could come over while my parents were gone, and i would spend the rest of the time studying-- but as it is now, i think i'd better go with them. i don't want to spend the next 48 hours alone, and would could be better than with three other people and a hyperactive dog in a little car?"
well, forget it forget it. turn up branvan3000. i'm tired of believing, in anything. As Graham Greene writes in the final paragraph of THE END OF THE AFFAIR: "I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever."