Sixteen Days

Am I counting down? I am so counting down. Work is hell and the sweet born-again-christian girl that I gossip with got done today to go back to Bob Jones University. Yes, I'm serious. Honestly, though, I think I would talk to Dick Cheney if he showed up at the Bitchen Kitchen, I get so bored sometimes. My nine day strech of special hell is over in 3 days. I'm celebrating by taking my baby sister down to Conn-College in New London, Connecticut. I've also made an executive decision that I'm going to start pronouncing that subversive "C" that hides in there, waiting for you to not put it in and look like an ass. In other news, it's rained the last two days and I've been in a foul mood for the last...several, so I decided to spare cyberspace my pissy rantings. Stephan's birthday was Sunday and although he got to go out boozing girlfriend-free for the evening, he did a mean impersonation of being depressed that I wasn't there. I mean pretty impressive shit here, considering he's usually the human sunbeam. On the job front, despite my unbelievable set of qualifications for, well...life, no one is beating down my door to hire me. And because that would involve (for the most part) an intercontinental flight, I do not begrudge them this. But beating down my inbox would be nice of them. Reallllly nice. My eccentric uncle Steve and his 22 year old special czech lady friend are leaving the country tomorrow. I made them both promise to write me and tell me what hell security was like so that I can mentally and materially prepare myself. Bribes and sexual favors might be necessary. Or just a quick look at the Air Canada website. Either/or.

My grandmother came to dinner last night. In turquoise velour. And was told by my sister that I hadn't done laundry in the last 3 weeks. Which is a flagrant lie, ladies and gentleman. It may or may not have been two and a half, and I may or may not have been begged by my mother (why she's suddenly concerned is a mystery to me, I've done my own washing since I was nine), but I haven't yet run out of socks or underwear. We're still sanitary here, people. Besides, after having to obsessively track the laundry-token-girl of my apartment building all year so that I might have the privelidge of paying her to use the often broken, sometimes flooded laundry facility...la casa Mama has it goin' on laundry-wise. But anyway, my grandmother was in her usual fine form. As I may have mentioned, she's a little loopy from the Alzheimers, which pains me, because everyone always baits her with these little "reminders" like "Oh, you were up for dinner a few weeks ago, remember Mum/Gran/Mary?" or "You were out for lunch today, Mary, what did you have?" She doesn't! Asking her about it isn't going to magically make the dementia go away. If I were her, I'd've lashed out long ago with a fabulous "No, damn it, I can't remember! I'm eighty-fucking-four and I'm losing my damn mind, so let me do it in peace!" Because despite her difficulty in remembering who I am if I wear my glasses, or what year she was born in, she's absolutely hilarious. All she needs is the occasional straight man and she'll leave the table in stitches. That's how I want to go. Choking on coffee/gin/water as it comes out my nostrils while I'm laughing. Preferably at a ripe old age, but you know...whatever. She was talking about being cremated and she asked me if I could find a young hunk to bury with her. I told her I'd kill him myself and bribe the funeral home to cremate them together. No, nothing's sacred in our house.

All right. Enough procrastination. Time to see what the damage is, and how many cubic inches I'll have to empty my closet into. Hellooooo Canada Air.