Florida Vacation | 01/03/04

I'm back in Florida, why don't you just wait a little while and I'll put a new post up later.

Well, I'm back in Florida after a long, long time in Naperville. The trip on the whole was very pleasant but with my dad asleep in my bed right now, I just might possibly be counting down the hours until I have my house, car, dog and life back within my control (as far as it ever was). We almost got in a fight at dinner, when my dad "made a case" (I use the term "made" to mean "weakly attempted to make") for me getting a job because of my German skills. I admit, I do have a .0005% knowledge of German (if that), BUT 75% of that knowledge comes from babel.altavista.com I'm not too proud to admit it. I passed the final test with nothing but my German dictionary, verb wheel and a pencil. Anyway, I know nothing. I would be just as lost as anyone else in Germany since, well, I can't read, speak, or understand German. I guess technically, in the loosest sense of the word, I can read a couple things. The point is, I am another useless American in that country. My dad insisted this was a marketable trait. Had he been offering me financial, economical or any sort of relevant advice I would have at least considered it. However, he thinks I could move to L.A. and get a job writing music. And somehow, this job involves traveling to Argentina, Austria, Belgium, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Namibia, Romania, Switzerland or any other country that involves having German fluency. I informed him that my knowledge of German consists of yelling "Scheisse!" when I got Steve and I euchred. The lecture series concluded with him saying, "I'm not going to tell you what to do." after telling me that I needed to vacuum. Twice. Because it was so bad it would go through at least two bags. What I'm also sick of is his telling me about MY dog. I feel like one of those bitches on Judge Judy yelling, "On't you tell me how to raise MY kid bitch! No, bitch. He's my kid!". I think I know when Chompy needs to pee. I think I know when she needs to eat. I can tell my the look on her face. I know you're just trying to make up for the fact that you screwed up with your dog but don't take it out on me. Finally, don't pretend like you're doing me this huge service taking her out in the morning. It's not like I can't do it. I've had Chompy for roughly two years. In that time, I've probably taken her out about 2000 times. (365*2*3.5) Somewhere in that number, surely must exist instances where I took her out in the morning. Oh wait--that's every day. I'll be the first, the FIRST to admit, I've yelled at her for waking me up, thrown pillows at her, done a bunch of things. I've also just flat out ignored her until I was ready to get up. Ok, this is true. I have not been the best dog owner on the planet but I'm sure at some point everyone who has a dog has put off taking their dog out. I can think of ONE time that I left her before taking her out. And I had had her for about a week at that point. Oh well, my mom always treats me well. Not that my dad treats me poorly but hello, at what age do I get the punch-card for adulthood, where I'm not under such scrutiny? 30? 40? Never? Oh god, I hope it's not never. I'm never having children. Ever.




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