Dog shit is really hard to distinguish from fallen leaves in the dark.
And maybe that woman isn't just running, I thought as I was standing out front scratching my ass, looking for the newspaper and the dog shit. (Multi-tasking.) Maybe she is running away.
These are my morning thoughts so far. How does one spin a yarn from that, pray tell. Plus, my rudimentary coffee system works well, unless the cone thing topples off of the cup, like it just did, spraying hot, expensive Italian coffee grounds I can no longer afford, all over my hideous "temporary" laminate countertops that have been in place for five years.
And, it's not even 6am.
Here we fuckin' go. The sun isn't even up and another great day is on the horizon. Pull up a chair – wait – just toss all that laundry on the floor and sit down will ya. Welcome to my pity party. First, raise your hand if you did anything for yourself yesterday? Anybody go the spa, or yoga? Anyone have any real problems, like cancer, or sick kids? If so, fuck off, you are dis-invited to my pity party.
Let me start by asking, why are there so many goddamned wheelchair parking spaces? Those people have wheels – why do they need to be so goddamned close to the goddamned door when they have goddamned wheels? Every parking lot I spun into yesterday was full, except for the dozen or so empty, blue wheelchair spaces and the occasional white pram space for expectant mothers. (I use those pregnant parking spaces all the time by the way, and I defy anyone to challenge how many months I may be along.)
Yesterday, after driving in circles around the parking lot for what seemed like hours but at such a high speed was likely seconds, I finally pulled into a blue wheelchair space and jumped out, poised like a Ninja to challenge any motherfucker who dared tell me I couldn't park there. I would have brandished my car keys like a sword had I not just locked them in the car. "Come on asshole... I dare ya" I'd say frothing at the mouth, "I'm sweating like a perimenopausal pig in sweatpants from driving around backtracking from Sackville to Buttville - revisiting the skate store, the pet store, the grocery store, the furnace oil store, the gas station, the dry cleaner, then the bank – looking for my bank card I realised I had lost when I attempted to deposit my paltry "Baby Bonus" cheque. So, back away slowly and no one gets hurt!"
Baby Bonus. That's what my mother used to call the Child Tax Credit. I won't even bother telling you what my mother used to buy with our monthly Baby Bonus because it was illegal, and the mere thought of it would turn this pity party into a self-pity mosh pit.
Where was I?
Oh, frothing at the mouth in the Value Village parking lot. I always feel like I need a shower after I've been in those "used anything" stores full of dead skin cells and poverty, even though you can get some great stuff in there and I was on the hunt for some decent curtains for Dave. Dave is Jack's #1 fan. Dave is a challenged senior citizen who has just been evicted from the house he has lived in for over 60 years by his nephew who inherited Dave's family home, and who, instead of keeping Dave "in the manner to which he is accustomed" kicked Dave to the curb. I was looking for curtains to try and make Dave's new shithole of an filthy apartment look a little more like home.
Jack knows I want a nursing home with a view of the water and a mini bar. A tennis court would be nice, and a pool I could pee in while doing aquacize. But after seeing how Dave has been treated by his loving family, I'd settle for a warm bed with plastic sheets and a roof over my head. And a minibar.
My brother announced last week that he is looking forward to taking an early retirement in 2012. I figure I'll be working 26 years after I am splayed out in my coffin with my middle finger flipped into an eternal bird, compliments of rigor mortis and the undertaker.
The bright side is, the sun is coming up, and unless someone Ponzied your life savings which would suck more than not having any, some people can actually retire and golf until the grim reaper comes a caddying. That's because Diane MacDonald works like a dog for Dejardins Financial Security. Dejardins may have the worst television commercials on record, but Diane designs and sells awesome retirement savings plans to businesses for their employees. Things I have none of, like: Pensions, RRSP, DPSP, TFSA and Non-Registered Savings. Anyway, there are people out there who can retire, thanks to Diane and work-based retirement programs and wise financial planning.
My financial planning goes like this: Okay, I have $3586 worth of credit left on my credit card, and I may croak tomorrow and who needs granite countertops, so let's go to Italy!
Which brings this pathetic ramble to a purpose and that purpose is getting out of whatever shithole you're in, and escaping to Tuscany. Maritime Travel have handpicked villas in Tuscany where you can park yourself and say, "When in Rome!" and guzzle Chianti all day. I want THAT job. Handpicking Tuscan villas. Like La Tenuta di Corsano, the 17-Century Tuscan farmhouse, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, just 12 km from Siena where you can sip local wines by the pool from $157 bucks per day. Which is about how much I spent on gas yesterday driving around like a middle-aged maniac hopped up on cooking sherry.
Someday, Jack will look down at me flipping him the bird from my coffin and say, "Mom, you scarred me for life, but we hiked the Cinque Terre and drank Prosecco by the canal in Venice and backpacked through Tuscany, and you may have left me nothing but a stack of bills and some big girl incontinence underpants – but it was a wild ride."
Yesterday, my miserable wild ride ended as it normally does; in a rink, surrounded by really nice people, laughing, yes, laughing – and not even the crazy-eyed type of hysterical laughing – just plain, happy laughing, watching my healthy boy get a shutout in his team's season home opener.
Fuck, in hindsight, life is good. Let's pity party!
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
Click on the Italy photo over to the right and check out Maritime Travel's Italian villas for rent. Or go to www.maritimetravel.ca.
Get your hard working employees some retirement benefits by calling Diane at 902.466.2505 or emailing: diane.macdonald@dfs.ca. www.dfs.ca
Get some really fine Italian coffee at The Italian Market on Young Ave. New owners, more about them later.
