It's another day in the neighbourhood. A neighbourhood where there is nothing at all to do and side note: how do I make my Macbook stop telling me that words spelt with ou are wrong? It isn't wrong. americans are wrong. Wrong at everything. Anyway. The neighbourhood with a corner store and a barber shop and not even any crackhead homeless people to laugh at.
Sometimes I really miss my old place. A typical day in the old place, before I got with Mike and we made babies, would include getting up early, whining about how badly I don't want to go to work, I'd paint or watch TV or read a novel, until dinnertime when I would walk over to the bar for work. I'd work. All night. Make maybe a hundred bucks in tips. Crappy. But after work I would head over to one of my party-hardy friends places to get hammered and stagger home at 9am.
Then I'd sleep until 1 or 2 in the afternoon. Wake up feeling like shit because I wasted the entire day. Wouldn't stop me from doing the exact same thing a couple of times every week.
Well, that isn't life for me anymore. And I'm just fine with that! Only problem is this neighbourhood. Yes, neighbOUrhood, macbook, fuck off.
These days are a little different in the life of Lindsay. What do we do all day, you ask? Good question. Most days I sit on the couch trying to catch up on all the internet-stuff, and try to make fun of everybody's conversations on 20something bloggers (they must hate me)... But the entire time Carter is sitting beside me kicking me. And kicking me. And whining! GAH!
If the baby ever shuts up and sits still for a while I will walk around the basement re-arranging things and finding new "homes" for things. I have been reading a lot of books about organizing lately. Mike always loses track of where everything ends up. So do I. I still haven't found my camera's USB cord. Mom - if you're reading this, can you take a look around upstairs for it?
Anyway. Today I looked over to Mike's side of the bed and it is a disgusting disaster. So all day I have been planning how I am going to yell at him about this. Jokingly? Sarcastically? Should I throw something?
Carter kicks this laptop so hard sometimes, I can't believe he doesn't hurt himself.
Today, my mom brought me home some fish and chips. Bless her heart. And it is totally not her fault at all that they are absolutely the grossest thing I have ever tasted. This piece of fish is nothing but an over-ly deep fried, burnt, skinny giant fucking fish stick and nothing more. And the fries are McCain superfries. I can't believe they charged my mother good money for this. Sorry, mom. Thank you for getting it for me. I will eat it, don't worry. I love you.