My Life Is Now A Stomachache

Right. At the very least, Paris was sound when I got home. Thank goodness. Then again, I might be screwed because I still haven't had a chance to ride my musical freestyle somewhere where it's flat. That might make it a little crappy, but at this point, I think I'm past caring. I'll just be there and try to have a good time.

Because Pony Club is supposed to be about good times. Mothers, on the other hand, are about bad times (at least in my family). Mine happens to be crazy, and horrible, and I do believe that she's making me physically sick. It's rather ironic, her being a doctor and all.

Maybe now is the chance to wash some ibuprofen down with a Gatorade, and then I'll feel all better. It's my mother's remedy for everything ailment I have ever had. Broke your fingers? (Except she doesn't think I ever did. I, on the other hand, have a crooked finger now.) Have some ibuprofen. Have the flu? Drink some Gatorade. Can't breathe? Wait, I didn't get a suggestion for that at all.

Anyway, she's out there now, hitting things with the lawnmower. I've been thinking how nice it will be to get out of school and move away somewhere. Not telling her the address is key, of course. And if she knows the address, then she certainly won't have a key. To the gate.

Earlier today, when my dad (the "good cop") was still visiting, he mentioned something quite surprising. Well, the first part wasn't necessarily surprising, because in the first part he said that my mother's crazy. And has been in a permanently bad mood for the past few months. In the second part, my dad told me he was getting a job.

Freeze. My dad. With a job?

Kudos to him, but he hasn't worked since he married my mother. He's been a school-oriented volunteer for all of my life, but he hasn't ever had anything that pays. Not that he's doing it for the money. We all know that any amount anyone other than my mother could make is trivial in comparison. My dad just wants to get out of the house. So my mother can't bitch to him as much. So she can't complain about how no one other than her works. Mind you, my dad spent his afternoon fixing her tractors. I'm surprised my dad still had hands when I got home (after work, ironically), because they looked painful. I offered him some lotion and he told me he had washed them in gasoline. To get some kind of crud off them. Everyone thinks he has the good life, you know, but he happens to be married to my mother.

Anyway, my dad said he wants to work at REI. I think that's a great choice for him. He does, after all, love camping, sleeping bags, tents, and interesting eating utensils like titanium sporks. Unfortunately, for him to get the position he wants, they want him to be able to type at least 25 words a minute. My dad said he could get 22 words per minute, if he went as fast as possible. The other jobs at REI say he needs to be able to lift 65 pounds. I'm sure my dad can lift that, but... that's a lot like having to lift his own age in pounds. (Not exactly, but close.)

In conclusion, although my horse is no longer lame, the outlook for my human family is bleak.