05-27-00
I feel compelled at this point to share that I am lit. Somewhere between the bottle rocket and roman candle stage of drunkeness. Damn you, Goldschlager, damn you to hell. I am also under the influence of You've Come a Long Way, Baby, courtesy of Fat Boy Slim. Somehow, though, I feel that that is less of a point of interest. Let's just suffice it to say that courtesy of Harold Kurtz, today's entry is written under the colour of alcoholic brevity.
Tuesday, I called my mother to share the excitement of another semester of A-grade goodness. She was suitably excited, then offered up the suggestion that a visitation to the proverbial homestead in order to acquire a yet-to-be-determined amount of organically grown strawberries would be a fantastic idea. I concurred. So I told her that thursday would be a great day for a visit.
So, that thursday I drove up after work, and upon arriving, I was served a delicious farmstyle dinner worthy of much lauding. Post dinner, it was also put forth that we needed to go pick 20 pounds of strawberries. Suddenly I was transmogrified from golden scholarly daughter into transitory migrant worker who would be paid in strawberries. Not than I can bitch too loudly, because organically-grown strawberries TOTALLY kick ass. Mom and dad grow a fantastic strawberry. But, I picked about 9 or 10 pounds of strawberries while listening to swing music on my new Phillips personal CD player. The only drawback? Mom deeply objected to me singing along to the music, since she couldn't hear it. Hello, who, in their right mind, could object to the lyrics, "A woman is a woman, but a man is just a meal,"? Louie Prima sang it, blame him.
After we picked the requisite amount of strawberries, I was informed that we desperately needed to pick another batch of strawberries that were going to rot on the vine(?) if they weren't picked that very second. Grand total was somewhere around 8 pounds. Net score for me? approximately 6.5 pounds of delicious fruity goodness.
Shortly thereafter, Dad offered me a deal. If I typed up some sort of legal appeal for him, he would give me an oil change. Now, not knowing much about my own car, I can only trust that I needed an oil change. I told him it was a deal, and devoted an entire hour and 15 minutes to the legal thingymabob. I actually had a kick typing it up. Apparently, some person that my dad represents got hit from behind by the defendant; the defendant's brother, father, and employer are also being sued. The kicker is that the plaintiff was afflicted by an amazingly similar event a couple of years prior. I mean, imagine, this man's poor wife has been forced to mow the lawn, be the breadwinner AND not get nookie, courtesy of TWO chronological accidents!
Personally, I feel that I made out ahead of the gig. I can not only process a whole bunch of strawberries [SIX AND ONE-HALF CRAZILY DELICIOUS FREAKING POUNDS!!!] into frozen fruity happiness, but I can type a hell of a lot faster, and amazingly MUCH MUCH MUCH more efficiently than my stepfather. I typed up the 5 page appeal in the same amount of time it took him to do the cover page, which was badly formatted. OF course, I know how to use the <TAB> key, and I'm a rocket scientist, you know. *snork*
