Well, I have, but I’ve been told it wasn't frequent enough. To be honest, not much is happening this summer. I never did manage to get a job, so there are no amusing (to the Reader, if annoying or frustrating to me) anecdotes regarding coworkers or customers. I haven’t gone anywhere, so there can be no travelogue. Nothing of interest.
Most of my time has been taken up by being my mother’s household slave. She had surgery on her foot at the end of May. It was supposed to be healed up by mid-July, but she still hobbles and the foot is still swollen, purple, and frightening to look upon. This means she can’t drive or do much of anything around the house or yard. I am the de facto maid, cleaning house and dishes and clothes. There are some possibly interesting (to the Reader) details about the clothes being washed, but it grosses me out thoroughly to think about it so I’m not going to write about it. I am the gardener, though I have an unreasonable fear of the lawn mower which probably stems from watching too many bad horror flicks as a youth, so that is left to the other ambulatory housemember, my dad. I am also completely at a loss as to what to do when gardening, so the roses aren't doing half as well as they were under my mother's care, which she tells me on frequent occasion. I am the cook, organizing the kitchen, trying to keep the shelves and fridge stocked appropriately, fighting with my father over every single purchase not specifically meant to spoil my two nephews who visited during the course of the summer (P-- for a week and S-- for three). My father would be very happy if my mother and I sustained ourselves on grass and tap water, especially since that would mean he wouldn’t have to mow the lawn, the only job he has in the house since Mom’s become an invalid, and one he does poorly and reluctantly at best.
My father is not a very nice guy, sometimes, nor does he like any sort of responsibility not associated with a regular paycheck. He’s moving to California some time this month (like he’d ever tell us when, or even how, he’s going). There is a certain relief associated with his departure, as he has become the greater of the two housemate evils, impossibly making my short-fused mother the lesser. I am considering, if I ever go on a date, fall in love, get married and have children, getting some sort of legal stop to keep my dad from having much contact with my kids. He has issues.
So does Mom, who has enjoyed very much commanding my days. I vacuum every other day. This is not enough for my mother, who demands I vacuum the entire house, including the sofas and chairs, every day. My mother, when she vacuumed, did so, at best, twice a week. The seating saw the vacuum cleaner once every couple of months, unless I took charge, which I was unlikely to do when submerged beneath the panic, self-doubt and homework of the semester. Piles of newspapers and magazines and catalogues and opened mail were scattered about the house, left there by my mother. She yells at me about the few piles left, even though I am not the one who left them there. I cannot recycle anything until given the okay by my mother, who can't be bothered to do so when asked, which means I have to fill unused corners creatively, stacking papers into aesthetically pleasing piles which are less likely to catch the eye of the visitors which never come. No one comes to the house except my sisters, and they, rarely. Dear lord, who would?
I’ve had three driving lessons which were paid for. I learned the basics of the road, generally. I still haven’t gone on a highway, and I wouldn’t trust me to, yet. Still, those three lessons are, apparently, the last of the lessons I will receive, unless my elder sister, E--, decides for another weekend spent training me to use the clutch. I suspect I will not be driving by the close of the summer, which is a problem, as Mom probably won't.
I am not a very happy person, but things could be far worse. My parents could demand I pay rent, as they did when I last resided in their house. They could demand I pay my share of the utilities, buy my groceries. I can’t, I can’t even find a job, and they’ve been relatively cool about that. I've had plenty of good books to read this summer, and Mom somewhat surprisingly hasn't begrudged me the time to sit and read them.
Mom and Dad took me to see two Yankees home game for my birthday, one on the 18th, which the Yankees won after a rain delay, and another on my birthday, the 22nd, which was cancelled due to rain. Considering they bought Tier seats for themselves, me, and my eldest sister, J--, and her son, S--, that’s a hefty investment. They took me to the Chinese place I liked so very much near where I used to live and got us all a yumdelicious dinner, almost rescuing my 30th from the nasty swamp of suckness in which it was mired from the get-go. The next day Dad made me one of my favorite meals which he used to make when I was a kid. I’d describe it, but most people think it sounds really gross and tell me so and never believe me when I tell them that, no, actually, it’s really good, and I don’t feel like going through that again. Still, most of my friends forgot it was my birthday, let alone my thirtieth, and I feel like a complete loser, living at home with my parents at this age, going to college with kids twelve years my junior, unemployed. Turns out thirty is no big thing to anyone except for the person turning thirty, which is why I didn't put up a post about it: who the hell cares?
I suppose I am a loser, but I doubt I’m a complete loser, as I never finish anything properly. Offshoot of my ingrained tendencies towards procrastination. So, this is the blog of Little Trooper Sugar Kat, Incomplete Loser and Rapidly Aging Fart.
Anyway, this is a very long, very whiny entry about pretty much nothing. If it was at all amusing, well, pretend you just read about the worst Seinfeld episode ever.
Most of my time has been taken up by being my mother’s household slave. She had surgery on her foot at the end of May. It was supposed to be healed up by mid-July, but she still hobbles and the foot is still swollen, purple, and frightening to look upon. This means she can’t drive or do much of anything around the house or yard. I am the de facto maid, cleaning house and dishes and clothes. There are some possibly interesting (to the Reader) details about the clothes being washed, but it grosses me out thoroughly to think about it so I’m not going to write about it. I am the gardener, though I have an unreasonable fear of the lawn mower which probably stems from watching too many bad horror flicks as a youth, so that is left to the other ambulatory housemember, my dad. I am also completely at a loss as to what to do when gardening, so the roses aren't doing half as well as they were under my mother's care, which she tells me on frequent occasion. I am the cook, organizing the kitchen, trying to keep the shelves and fridge stocked appropriately, fighting with my father over every single purchase not specifically meant to spoil my two nephews who visited during the course of the summer (P-- for a week and S-- for three). My father would be very happy if my mother and I sustained ourselves on grass and tap water, especially since that would mean he wouldn’t have to mow the lawn, the only job he has in the house since Mom’s become an invalid, and one he does poorly and reluctantly at best.
My father is not a very nice guy, sometimes, nor does he like any sort of responsibility not associated with a regular paycheck. He’s moving to California some time this month (like he’d ever tell us when, or even how, he’s going). There is a certain relief associated with his departure, as he has become the greater of the two housemate evils, impossibly making my short-fused mother the lesser. I am considering, if I ever go on a date, fall in love, get married and have children, getting some sort of legal stop to keep my dad from having much contact with my kids. He has issues.
So does Mom, who has enjoyed very much commanding my days. I vacuum every other day. This is not enough for my mother, who demands I vacuum the entire house, including the sofas and chairs, every day. My mother, when she vacuumed, did so, at best, twice a week. The seating saw the vacuum cleaner once every couple of months, unless I took charge, which I was unlikely to do when submerged beneath the panic, self-doubt and homework of the semester. Piles of newspapers and magazines and catalogues and opened mail were scattered about the house, left there by my mother. She yells at me about the few piles left, even though I am not the one who left them there. I cannot recycle anything until given the okay by my mother, who can't be bothered to do so when asked, which means I have to fill unused corners creatively, stacking papers into aesthetically pleasing piles which are less likely to catch the eye of the visitors which never come. No one comes to the house except my sisters, and they, rarely. Dear lord, who would?
I’ve had three driving lessons which were paid for. I learned the basics of the road, generally. I still haven’t gone on a highway, and I wouldn’t trust me to, yet. Still, those three lessons are, apparently, the last of the lessons I will receive, unless my elder sister, E--, decides for another weekend spent training me to use the clutch. I suspect I will not be driving by the close of the summer, which is a problem, as Mom probably won't.
I am not a very happy person, but things could be far worse. My parents could demand I pay rent, as they did when I last resided in their house. They could demand I pay my share of the utilities, buy my groceries. I can’t, I can’t even find a job, and they’ve been relatively cool about that. I've had plenty of good books to read this summer, and Mom somewhat surprisingly hasn't begrudged me the time to sit and read them.
Mom and Dad took me to see two Yankees home game for my birthday, one on the 18th, which the Yankees won after a rain delay, and another on my birthday, the 22nd, which was cancelled due to rain. Considering they bought Tier seats for themselves, me, and my eldest sister, J--, and her son, S--, that’s a hefty investment. They took me to the Chinese place I liked so very much near where I used to live and got us all a yumdelicious dinner, almost rescuing my 30th from the nasty swamp of suckness in which it was mired from the get-go. The next day Dad made me one of my favorite meals which he used to make when I was a kid. I’d describe it, but most people think it sounds really gross and tell me so and never believe me when I tell them that, no, actually, it’s really good, and I don’t feel like going through that again. Still, most of my friends forgot it was my birthday, let alone my thirtieth, and I feel like a complete loser, living at home with my parents at this age, going to college with kids twelve years my junior, unemployed. Turns out thirty is no big thing to anyone except for the person turning thirty, which is why I didn't put up a post about it: who the hell cares?
I suppose I am a loser, but I doubt I’m a complete loser, as I never finish anything properly. Offshoot of my ingrained tendencies towards procrastination. So, this is the blog of Little Trooper Sugar Kat, Incomplete Loser and Rapidly Aging Fart.
Anyway, this is a very long, very whiny entry about pretty much nothing. If it was at all amusing, well, pretend you just read about the worst Seinfeld episode ever.
