Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll All I wanted was my Extra Large Double Double and an Egg McMuffin. In a world as fucked up as this one � with drive-by shootings, anthrax scares, global warming, and weapons of mass destruction � I didn�t feel that I was asking too much. But noooo. After making the twenty-minute drive into town for these two very specific items, I was first met with "I�m sorry, we stopped serving breakfast at 11am." It was 11:02, and I�d been sitting in the drive-thru waiting to place my order for 5 minutes. I was hung over and without caffeine, so didn�t bother arguing with the thirteen year old behind the register. Never mind. Across the highway over to Tim Horton�s which, amazingly, has no line-up at the drive-thru (drive-thru options were essential yesterday morning, as I was wearing my pajamas). I pulled into the Timmy�s parking lot and immediately realized the reason for the deserted drive-thru. And this brings us to the first of three things I never thought I�d hear in this lifetime: 1. "The Tim Horton�s Drive-Thru is closed". CLOSED. Imagine the gall.. The horror! The shock. So this is my second failed mission of the day, both of which occurred in the space of three minutes, and it�s not even noon yet. So far, I�m not "Ba da ba ba baaaaa, lovin� it". Drive the twenty minutes back to Mel�s house (after settling for a Starbuck�s latte purchased from a Safeway shop which, to say the least, was not up to Bucky standards...), walk in the door and am greeted by the disaster area kitchen � the result of copious alcohol consumption the night before in celebration of Mel�s return home (a.k.a. my retirement from parenthood), and Kris & Ayumi�s arrival. Damn! I was hoping the mess would magically disappear! Hardly through the door, I hear Jaimee scream from the bathroom, "Aunt Holly! Ethan pooped in the shower again!!!". GOD DAMNIT! I�m supposed to be retired! This kid doesn�t just crap in the shower. It�s like he lifts his leg in the air, balances on the other leg, and spins around firing turds in every direction like a machine gun. Honestly. This was a big �un... a triple-flusher. So, I finished cleaning that up, doused the shower with a hefty helping of bleach, and continued on to my next adventure of the morning. The kitchen. I made sufficient noise in the kitchen to ensure that people knew I was up cleaning it, and soon they began emerging from their nests and caves to help and/or see what all the racket was about. This brings me to the second of three things I thought I�d never hear in my lifetime: 2. "Tony, can you please take your dad off the top of the fridge and put him back in my closet?" My brother-in-law Sean�s remains are generally located in Mel�s bedroom, however the night before we�d decided to dust him off and bring him out to the kitchen table to join the rest of us in our drunken carousing. Apparently, in order to make room for snacks (and possibly for his own safety), at some point in the evening Sean had been relocated from the table to the top of the fridge. For a family as deranged as my own, having my dead brother-in-law�s ashes placed on the table so that he can be included in our festivities really doesn�t seem all that odd. It�s just the actual phrase that struck me as hysterical and totally redneck. Well, for a day that started out pretty shite, it actually wound up nicely. Mel�s friend Terry had us all over to his mansion for a massive steak and lobster feast. The kids were downstairs playing video games so the house was quiet, the view of the lake was fabulous (despite the rain), I was curled up in the corner of a gorgeous, comfy leather sofa, and Terry ensured that my martini glass never went dry (God bless Terry). Things were looking up. They were, that is, until we started talking about Wyatt�s savings account and how he�s managed to squirrel away a couple grand over the summer working part-time as a �Professional Scullery Technician� at Boston Pizza. And I jokingly said, 3. "Ha, ha, ha... Maybe I should borrow money from Wyatt!" We all had a good chuckle, but then I started thinking about what I�d said and immediately sank into depression. How fucking pathetic am I that this is actually a reality that I could be in a situation where my fourteen year old nephew has more pennies to his name than I do??? Is this rock bottom? Dear god, please, let it be. I can�t take any more. As soon as I begin thinking about finances, my mind starts swimming with panic and desperation. This cruise ship thing has killed me. The extensive waiting period between when I walked away from Pharmasave and when I finally decided to cut my losses and scrap the whole idea cost me a small fortune. A fortune with an interest rate of 12%, unfortunately. BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! Plastic is evil children. Run away from it! The day that I finally pay off my credit card(s), I�m going to celebrate with a three-day bender of Sex, Drugs, and Rock n� Roll! Well, no. I won�t. Not really. But I am going to celebrate... probably with a bottle of wine. Actually, some sex might creep into the equation too... What the hell! We�ll get busy with a bottle of wine while listening to AC/DC! Woo Hoo! And people tell me I don�t know how to party. Pshaw. |