More for me.

Also, please excuse the blurry and generally terrible quality of my cell phone’s camera:

What a little brat.

So, I bring it to the Internet to find out who wins. (Note that I am including my card and Ian’s card; Dad forgot that we play this game, so he went to the nearest Walgreen’s and bought one. Talk about taking the coward’s way out.)

Ian’s Card: Marker on white computer paper. Reads “To the bestest Mom in the world,” with the “o” in “world” being a blue and green circle, with what appears to be two continents that don’t actually exist. Inside, written in orange, there is a poem:

“I am writing this note
Yes, it is true
Without sugar-coat:
I (heart) you!”

Below this reads “Happy Mother’s Day!!!” in green and “Love, Ian” in purple.

My Card: Construction paper cut out on a yellow backdrop. On the front reads, “To the best Mom in the world,” with “Mom” written in large red glitter atop a large pink heart in the middle of the page. Inside, there is a cutout of a white body under a red oval meant to represent a uterus. Inside is a pink fetus with a beard giving a thumbs up. From this area emanates a blue speech bubble, causing the fetus to say, “Thanks for birthing me!” To the right of this, written in orange, green, and red is, “Happy Mother’s Day 2007, (heart) Casey.”

I’m sorry that this textual representation of our artwork is the best I can offer, but sadly I haven’t yet discovered how to operate the scanner here in Clearwater. I also don’t think it would be prudent to stick glitter in there. However, I do state that my description of each card is as accurate as possible, and I don’t think it takes a genius to know who the favorite son is going to be this year.

I started listening on Monday. I was still listening today, four days after the holiday. I am about to go insane, but I can’t stop.

What gets me is the fact that these Irish folks, who are presumably always drunk, can remember the eight billion words that are to be in any song and that they can spit those words back out as fast as many of these melodies require.

This is what has convinced me of the supreme greatness of Irish people: they’re always drunk, fighting, and can really drop a phat beat.

The other day, she got a couple of desktop calendars for my computer table. They’re the kind where you have to rip off a page for each day to present a new fact or trivia question. In this case, they’re Buccaneers and Major League Baseball themes.

But on to my gripe session. I never really understood these types of calendars: they sit there, reflecting 1/365 of the year while leaving you largely unenlightened about the days and weeks surrounding the single day that sits there and stares you in the face. What if it’s Boxing Day in Canada next Tuesday? How can I even begin to prepare my annual Boxing Day party if I don’t know about it until next Tuesday when I finally remember to rip off the sheets of paper that have been left untouched for a week because I forgot to bother with the whole progression of time? This, my friends, is a veritable mystery.

By the way, you’re all invited to my annual Boxing Day gala on December 26. Tell your friends and BYOB.

I had to call the office of Chuck Murphy (president of the Florida State Baseball League) yesterday to see what I needed to do to get my scholarship check from the mascot gig this summer, and I got the information from his secretary.

I said goodbye, but this lady would just not stop talking. I don’t know if she felt that she had to make conversation with me to be nice or what, but this lady talked to me about everything there is to be talked about. Baseball, college, my career path, everything.

And I think that she was genuinely offended when I told her that my major is probably going to be political science.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with baseball!”

Listen lady: I’m a 5’6″, 140 pound IB student with absolutely no physical prowess. Plus, I’m a football man. And heck, there’s no money in baseball anyway.

About 10 minutes later, I was finally able to coerce her into hanging up the phone, but not until after I had spilled my life story to this complete stranger.

The holidays do some crazy things to people.

Tomorrow is a half day at school because of President’s day. President’s day?! It’s not really a holiday, its like two birthdays mixed into one that gives an excuse for lack of work. No matter, at least I don’t have to put any effort into my being tomorrow.