My Saturdays are often spent prostrate on a couch, ignoring my children and husband, reading the paper and drinking coffee, or running errands, or just picking my nose and wiping it on an unsuspecting child.
This Saturday, that all goes down the toilet. Because this Saturday, folks, this babe is going to be b-u-s-y. Yup, that's right. No rest for the wicked, they say (whatever that means).
Saturday is the annual fundraiser Slut and I run for Camp Quality, which is a camp for kids with cancer. This year, Slut has pretty much run the show all by her lonesome, mostly because I am very lazy, but also because I've not been well. We've been doing this fundraiser for six years now (I think), although it feels more like sixty, and it's probably our last year, because we're both tired of doing it, and it's time for some new blood.
My kids have attended this camp for about seven years now. Slut's son attended it for many years as well, and Slut is actually the person who
Anyway, this Saturday is the day for the fundraiser, which happens to be a bowlathon, and lots of people come and bowl and bring us lots of money
I've been feeling rather terrible this year, because, as I stated above, Slut has pretty much put this year's bowlathon together all on her own. She is to be commended. If I had a badge, I'd give it to her, and it would say, "Good job, Curly Top Tay Tay."
So, as I said, I've been feeling just awful, and mostly because I have not been able to get myself in gear to help her out. It's all I have in me to get out of bed some days. Some days are better than others, but it hasn't been easy. Which doesn't make it any better. I'm just trying to garner as much sympathy as possible, which is how I roll.
Slut has been an island throughout this sojourn, and it breaks my little heart.
All this to say that I planned on being there 172 per cent on Saturday, to prove to Slut that my aim is true, my love and devotion is strong and deep, and I'm not letting her down anymore.
That is, until I got an email telling me I had been accepted into the cattle corral of government testing, and they want me to come and complete more second language testing (read 'Let us test you and spend lots and lots of money to see if you can write and read French better than you can English because you live too close to the province of Quebec, which means you are going to be treated entirely unfairly and screwed royally').
I read the entire email, and finally get to the part where it tells me where and when, and I gasp in horror, because it takes place the same day as the bowlathon, and now I'm about to shit my pants.
After I get over the initial shock, I start fretting over Slut's reaction when I tell her. She's going to hate me, I think, and this will be the end of our friendship. Although, now that she's already wanting me dead because of Tuesday's post, I guess it really didn't matter in the first place. Of course, I didn't know that at the time, because I'm not a psychic.
Slut was okay with it all, guys, so it's all good.
I told her the news while we were shopping at Costco, and after she throttled me with an industrial mallet and a lengthy piece of twine, coupled with a gargantuan plastic sack of unripe bananas, she then vowed she would never invite me to her momma's cottage again (although she tends to forget that her momma loves me more, and she says that a lot about the cottage, so it's all just hot air now, in one ear and out the other, as they say), and then we bought lots of Rockets and candy pacifiers and chips, and we're the best of friends again.
Life's like that for Slut and me.
The real test will come Saturday, guys, and I'll have to let you all know how it flies when noon comes along and I'm all, "Okay, bye Slut! I'm off to do my useless French language testing now!", while she has to contend with the second shift of bowlers who will start coming in shortly after I exit
By then, Slut will be exhausted, and she won't have me to hang with, so she'll be really bitchy as well (yes, much more than usual), and all the bowlers will have their kids with them, and they'll all want a prize, and a loot bag, and a t-shirt, and it still won't be enough, and Slut will have to deal with them all alone, instead of having me there to remind them all to stuff it up the wazoo and just be happy they have opposable thumbs and can bowl, goddammit!
I'll let you all know how it goes, because I'm sure I'll get a minute-by-minute update from Slut, replete with expletives. Oh, she'll ask about how my French testing went, but I know what she's really saying. And I can't repeat it here because this blog is rated G.