Sheep look up

I’m copying everyone else and changing my colours. Let’s see if anyone notices. Oh let’s.

I am so tired today. I spent the long weekend cleaning my apartment. I tackled my bedroom which hasn’t been dusted or vacuumed in about three years. Three years of full-time school and work leaves no time for such frivolity. I have hardwood floors, so the dust bunnies under my bed and in corners were black, big, and frightening – straight out of a housekeeper’s horror B-flick. I swear they had teeth – at least they did in my dreams that night as they floated towards me with a vengeance.  I won, armed with my vacuum hose. I had to change the bag halfway. Vacuuming under the bed, radiators, dressers and bookshelves is a work-out for a couch potato like me, reaching into far corners with my face pressed against the floor and ass high in the air – I know, housekeeper porn – it’s quality entertainment, really. My hair and downward excercises resembled Richard Simmon’s while dusting and sweating to the nineties. I feel justified calling it a work-out since my bedroom is huge and I’m cleaning up the dead skin cells and stray hairs from three living beings: me, my better half and the cat, the worst culprit. 

So the cleaning was done, and yesterday I walked for miles and then drank red wine, ate medium-rare grilled steak followed by freshly baked strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert, and tossed a frisbee on Spanish Banks Beach with some friends. Plus I chased and twirled a happy toddler. All uber-fun, but exhausting. Me and wine don’t mix. I love drinking it, the taste, the aroma, my lightheadedness and giddy grinning, but during the night, I always wake up with a headache, dizziness and nausea. And today, I am wiped. I am doing everything to stay awake and not do a faceplant on my monitor at work. I could sleep while walking down the street. I’m quite talented at doing those two things at once during broad daylight.

When I had a paper-route in my early and mid-teens, actually, let me rephrase that to the following:  When a paper route was forced upon me via slave labour by my father and The London Free Press (who generously doled out the slave wages), I would be so tired from getting up at 5 a.m. before school every morning, I would fall asleep while walking back home, the monotonous sound of the metal cart dragging behind me coaxing my heavy eyelids shut.  I found myself staggering onto the middle of the road, awakened by a honking car or someone yelling at me to get off the f*cking road. I would sheepishly make my way back to the sidewalk, only to find myself back on the road again minutes later.  I was eventually fired because I just couldn’t get the papers delivered by 7 a.m. sharp. Most of my customers were grateful to have their papers by 7:05, even 7:15, but the very last house on my route belonged to a disgruntled London Free Press employee who stood by his door glaring at his watch.  I was never so happy to lose a job. 

I’d be happy to lose this reception job, it is so boring, but I need the money. It is laid-back, super easy, but soooooooo painfully dull. Order processing, counting inventory, answering the phone, listening to my boss cough up and swallow mucus and the warehouse guy belch is no entertainment. They are sweet people, but love to hear themselves talk. 

I need a real job. I am tired of applying, working for hours on the perfectly-written cover-letter. I just graduated and so far I’ve received no responses, just dead quiet, the droning dial tone when I check for messages. My Fido voicemail is always saying, “I’ve got nothing to tell you!” in that perky voice. Some pet you are. You’re supposed to fetch when I say so! Fetch me those jobs! Fetch me the fancy title, higher wages and my name in print, you lazy dog!