Trying to find Woodstock

Break out the celebratory alcohol, people. There are no tests for 3 weeks. I'm currently studying Judd Apatow's early work, as I'm sure the early adolescence of Dr Sweets will be relevant on one of my exams. Or maybe it's just that the soundtrack on Freaks and Geeks is kick ass, and I'm burnt out from conjugating all those french verbs. My English is really suffering. Gord said something to me today, and I replied "I are?" I'm turning into a lolcat.

It rained all day yesterday, and all we did was laundry. If there's one good thing about having to trek to the laundromat every 2 weeks, it's that you can get every piece of dirty laundry done in 2 hours, using 3 double load washers and 6 dryers. We still always manage to end up with unpaired socks, but at least we've got clean sheets and undies for another 14 days.

We're in the midst of finding jobs, a new apartment and a cat sitter for the 2 weeks that we're going home to Calgary, and frankly it is exhausting. I hate phoning strangers and having to be manically cheerful. Thank god for Gord, because he's been picking up all my stranger phoning slack. While I'm not a lesbian, and I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than get married again, it would be nice to have someone here to do all those crappy jobs. The laundry, the phone calls and the paperwork, maybe some vaccuming...

What Gord and I need is a good little 1950's wife. She'd make us drinks before dinner, and iron our socks, and listen to all our problems. But I guess after 10 years or so, she'd hit the 60's, stop shaving and rant all the time about us being oppressive fascists. She'd be right, and when she packed all her newly tie-dyed shirts into a duffel bag, I'd be right there with her, trying to find Woodstock.