Days until Unemployment

The Last Days of Summer

In just three days, I will be going back to my previous occupation of unemployed vagrancy, which will be soon followed by the poverty of studenthood. But it's all worth it. It's just hard to believe that soon I will not be picking cucumbers or bussing tables.

The Day from H E Double Hockey Stick

A few weeks ago, we were pruning at the greenhouse. It was hot and I hate pruning. They set me loose with a large exacto knife and tell me to trim the plethora of shoots that sprout from every possible spot on the vine. And then the shoots have shoots, and so on. When I can no longer handle the boredom, I imagine myself an explorer with a machete, wacking my way through the jungles of Vietnam, or perhaps Africa. It keeps my mind occupied for a few minutes, and then I'm bored again.

This particular Tuesday, I was in particularly poor spirits as I drove home about lunch time. I went into my aunt's little house which never ceases to remind me of the Lego houses I made as a kid, and found the door to my room open. I never leave it open because the too curious cat and the hurricane of a dog are quite fond of my room. Hurricane Karmoy had hit my room, leaving a wake of destruction, most noticeably a pair of shoes. Not my shoes. Grant's girlfriend Stef's shoes. Pieces of them were scattered all over my bed. As you can imagine, my mood did not improve.

I had to leave the house. So I drove over to the Boylan's Drug Store where the Canada Post counter is to pick up a package of Sherry's. After waiting for half an hour while one lady was helped by two people, I found out the package was actually at the downtown location. Great. So I threw the van into reverse and hit the gas to avoid the traffic. Then I heard a sickening CRUNCH!

Now, in my family, it is Grant who makes stupid driving mistakes. It is Grant who has had accidents. Until the crunch, I had never had an accident. (Well, in a car. I did have a minor scooter collision, but it was definitely not my fault.) I feel like I have taken a driving lesson from the school of Grant.

I got out to find an old, unattractive car. The windows were rolled down. Empty cigarette boxes on the floor. An ash tray full of ashes. And a sauder gun on the passenger seat. And yes, a freshly smashed in front fender. And no sign of the owner anywhere. I left a note on the windshield, and drove up to my grandparents' house where Gregg had to listen to me cry and did his best to calm me down.

We went back to the scene of the accident and the car was gone. On route to get Dr. Pepper slurpees, we saw it cruising in all its dented glory. The owner didn't call me for a few days. I had begun to hope that he didn't care about the damage. It turned out that he did.

No LPGA for Me

After working at a golf course for many months, I finally golfed there. Gregg and I did nine holes today. Maybe on Tuesday, I'll do the back nine. We shall see . . . What do they call it when you're, um, say 6 or 8 strokes over par?