You Know Your Mother Is An Internet Scam Artist When...

An email I received from my mother this morning:

Sent by: (mom)

Subject header: Do you want to spend Christmas in the Carribean?

Content of email: (as copy and pasted) http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/van/edu/1397999317.html

xo
mom

Now I'll just go click on that link and before you know it some lovely stranger will have stolen my credit card info and bought nine orders of 7-11 nachos, 13 packs of rollies, and a ferrari.

THANKS MOM!

Sippin' on Gin and Juice

Yesterday on the phone my mother informed me I wasn't blogging enough. She laughed out loud (lol'd if you will) about my Twitter page. "For Pete's sake Carmen, everyone still thinks you fell off your bike!"

First things first mom. I did fall off my bike, it sucked, and now the moment is immortalized on Twitter. Second, I think your "everyone" comment is cute, duly noted, but you are the only person who reads that page.

Okay though, yes, I do need to update. We live in different time zones (yes, I'm just addressing my mom directly now. Dad, you're welcome to read along too) and catching each other on the ol' telayphono can be difficult.

The problem folks, is that I'm not sure my snooze-fest of an update is worth your time. Currently I'm pretty hung over, reading lying down because I can't manage to perform any task while vertical, and mentally preparing myself to go to work. I don't know if the rest of the world does that pre-shift mental prep? The pep-talk that involves a few "I'll quit if they talk to me like that one more time!" and at least one emphatic "I can do this!"

All I can think about is that the distance between myself and a real job looks like the Grand Canyons right now, and what I have to work with are these two bony legs. Please give me a call when you acquire an atv and the penchant for random acts of human kindness.

Until then, follow my lead and keep it real homies.

i'm like sunshine on a rainy day

Working seven days a week has been so fun. Fun like getting a blood test. I'm noticing that I say things that make me (sound) very old. Have I had a conversation with you yet about how my feet always hurt? Last night as I was falling asleep I thought of the old lunch lady at my elementary school, of the taupe coloured orthotics she used to don. Now, I sort of envy those cushy, faintly medical looking things.

My grey hair count is at 2, which is about an orange on the pandemic scale. One was excusable, but two? When I found the second it wasn't one of those sad but hilarious moments that I then go and tell my coworkers about, I literally stood in my bathroom while my youth flashed before my eyes.

No one will love you, Carmen. No one.

Though, I must say, there is light amongst the darkness. The other night at work, (WHY DO I WORK NIGHTS AGAIN?!) we were swamped, everyone was running around frantically trying to do nine things at once, my angelic coworker turned to me and said, "Hey, you want a break? I've got a burger in the back, it's all yours."

I just sort of looked at her, dumbfounded. She could have said she had some spare dry almonds, or maybe one of those shitty granola bars that's not even covered in chocolate, but a burger?! I sat in a storage closet atop a spare folded area carpet, a coat rack dangling above my head. With weight off my feet and something greasy in my belly I had never been happier.