Half-Castic, Basketball, Chicken, Paint, HOGS, and White-Trash Sunbathing.

I haven’t posted in a while.  I would say that I have been busy, but how busy can you be with no job and no friends? I fill my days chauffeuring my brother and sister around, going to the trusty ole YMCA, treasure hunting at the Salvation Army, and spending quiet time searching my soul and hypothesizing on the fabric of the universe (Yes, that last one was half-castic) (Yes, half-castic is a phrase that I just made up for a literary devise that I employ, wherein my statements are half sarcastic and half dead serious) (Yes, I use half-castic phrases because I have trouble expressing myself).

Anyway, what follows are some scarce oases of life in the dessert landscape that is my recent past. (Yes, half-castic again) (No, I am not sure if I used oases correctly there) (No, I don’t care)

One night, mom and dad were out, so cooper and I decided to go to the YMCA (because we have nothing better to do on a Friday night). We arrived at the beloved Y, only to discover that it was closed. The next plan of action was to go back home and play basketball at the neighborhood park. As we walked to the park, Cooper expressed some misgivings. When I tried to reassure him that we wouldn’t get arrested for being at the park after dark, I realized that he was afraid of homeless people at the park. Our minds work so differently. Once at the courts, we played some of the worst basketball ever seen in SoCal. So it is probably a good thing that it wasn’t seen. There were no lights. We couldn’t even see ourselves playing, and I could barely see the ball when he threw it at my face. Eventually, we decided to play H-O-R-S-E. For those of you who do not know, I have a signature H-O-R-S-E shot. That shot is the Backwards-Granny-Free-Throw. In all my H-O-R-S-E time in Florida, I never once was able to make my signature shot. But, like the nerdy, clumsy soul that I am, I hadn’t given up trying. So, for my first shot in H-O-R-S-E, I decided to try the classic, just for kicks. I BANKED IT. Like, swoosh. First try. In the dark. On a new court. With a  deflated ball. You know what the crazy part was? My brother didn’t care. I mean, he cared that he had to try to shoot it, and that his resulting miss made him a “HO,” but he failed to grasp the epic quality of the shot. He failed to revel with me in the awesome-ness of the night. I was left to congratulate myself, to celebrate in solitude. And I still lost the game of H-O-R-S-E.

We are at the G—’s every week, sometimes more than once a week. Recently, I have been commissioned to paint their bathroom (walls and cabinets). One day, while painting, Cooper remarked that the bathroom was my Sistine Chapel. My great, great uncle, Michael Angelo, would be SO proud of me. (That comment was whole-castic, because not only am I completely un-related to Michael Angelo, but I am sure he would be humiliated if his great, great niece were painting a commoner’s bathroom) I enjoy painting (bath)rooms, because (a) I enjoy repetitive, meticulous tasks, (b) I enjoy feeling accomplished, and (c) I enjoy pretending to be artistic. I do NOT, however, enjoy painting if young girls are sitting at the (bath)room door, remarking things like “You’re doing a pretty good job on the bathroom. There are hardly any mistakes! Except that one…and that one…and that one…OH! and THAT one! It kinda looks like you just took the paintbrush and went ‘WOOOPS!” Or, when the young girls have contagious illnesses. However, the painting is done, and I am no worse for the wear, except some stubborn paint that still has not come off my legs.

I know, at this point, you are probably just like, “Shut up and tell me if you have a job already!”

Yes. I do. At Chick-Fil-A.

I know, at this point, you are probably just like, “Seriously? Grow up and get a real job already!”

Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, anonymous reader of my internet blog, but I work at Chick-Fil-A. And honestly, it is one of the only familiar things about my life here. And I applied to about 1.2 trillion places, so I guess God wanted me at Chick-Fil-A. It is really nice to already know how to take orders and do 89% of what I am supposed to know. There is also about 3x as much space at this place as there was at my old store. Also, 92% of the employees speak better Spanish than I do, so I need to step up my game. Although, it is nice to be able to listen to conversations that they do not think I can understand. Today I got to do outside order taking, with the same old handheld and everything. The customers and the weather are both nicer here.

Back to the G—’s house. Whenever we go over there, we end up sitting around the campfire when the sun goes down. Sometimes the girls stay up, sometimes we have popcorn, sometimes we roast marshmallows, and sometimes we sing hymns. It is one of the brightest spots in my week, and I am really glad that my job will not take Sunday Fire Nights away.

I am hog sitting this week (hog=house and dog) in Camarillo. A few things that I have learned:

1. I don’t mind freeway driving when I have Justin Bieber to keep me company

2. I am really, really glad there are plenty of exits on the freeway, for when I get on the wrong direction.

3. I am really allergic to dogs.

4. I don’t enjoy scooping up dog poop any more than I did when I was 7 years old and our yard was 1/4 of an acre.

5. It is hard to take pictures with Daily.

6. I will never, ever, ever, tire of making lists. Lists are my hobby, my passion, my therapy, my catharsis. I might even be addicted.

So, I guess that is enough rambling for now. I will save the rest of my writing for the few people who keep up letter correspondence with me, and I will give you a few pictures of Daily (I took 13, until I finally gave up).

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Oh, and here is a TERRIBLE one of us sunbathing on our roof…on a blow up mattress…like the true white trash that we are. I guess I should have told you that story too. All I have to say about it is, it wasn’t my idea. And yes, We were visible from the road.

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Yeah. That’s enough. I’ll just leave you with a question that has been on my mind recently:

What do hipsters look like when they are working out?

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