Happy 2007 to you all!

Well, that went fast. I'm not sure if I can mark 2006 down as a good year or not--overall, I'm ambivalent. There were some amazing times, and some really crappy times. So, basically, like all other years. I'm looking forward to moving out in a few months, and dreading having to face cold, hard reality. I'm thinking that 2007 will be interesting, and full of the usual rollercoasters of emotion.

A few highlights from 2006:

• spiking my coffee cup on the way out of my last exam
• graduation day and the following (and final) communal nap at 10 Stanley
• my trip to Europe

Wow. I hope I can come up with more for next year. Well, I'm sure there ARE some... I'm just too lazy to consult archives and my journal at the moment. But these ones stick out to me right now. So there we go.

take it from me, there's not much to see in this void

Just got back from coffee with an old friend from high school. Good to catch up with him, but it was a little random because we were never that much more than acquaintances at school; I'm finding that since I've graduated and moved back home, people you used to sort of know are suddenly interested in chatting and being all social. But the really rando thing was that we ran into two girls who used to be really close friends of mine. I hadn't spoken to one of them in probably three years, and the other girl last I ran into exactly a year ago, boxing week sale shopping. So there was the awkward chatting, which is always a good time. It's poor timing; I was just feeling positive about the way my life is going, and now I have to see people who make me think about the trajectory my life was taking five years ago. Al's in teacher's college, just like she planned, and Maryse is still pursuing that physio degree (or so I gathered... she didn't do too much talking). I never wanted to be back in the 'Saugs, working at the local watering hole, but here I am.

I guess it's all for the best though. I don't really have a handle on what else I could be doing at this particular moment, life being what it is. And I have a goal in mind, and I'm almost there. It's just a case of reunion syndrome, when you want to have something wildly impressive to tell lapsed friends so they can realize how much better your life is than theirs.

peace on earth, etc

Hey, Merry Christmas to all! First, allow me to explain my week and a half of absence. My computer decided that it wasn't going to speak to my keyboard any more, essentially. I calmly considered the situation, and then threw a hissy fit. And now, here I am on a brand new computer, with a snazzy flat LCD screen. I actually got talked out of the faster computer by the salesman (he wasn't too impressed with me. I think when he asked me what I was using it for and I said, "You know... typing... stuff...." alarm bells went off in his head). Anyway, people think I'm crazy when I anthropormorphize my machinery, but I set up the new one while the old one was still in the room, and now the old one refuses to work at all. We set it up in the basement and were planning on hooking it up to the internet so I could transfer my music, but it's being withholding. So once again, I am starting from scratch. My brother is convinced that he can get the old one up and running again (at least to the point where I can get my files off it), but he is stymied as to why it's so moody. It refuses to turn all the way on now. It let me open the cd drawers and get my DVDs out, and some of the power lights turn on--just not the main one. I'm telling you, it has a personality. And it's real mad at me.

So what have I been doing with myself for the last eleven days, you ask? Nothing of vital importance. Last weekend Jo and I went up to the Hammer for some quality Toni time. You can zip over to Toni's blog for pictorial evidence. Then I worked a bunch, finished my shopping, and, you know, generally did my thing. I tried to get the entire TJ's staff to say "It's a Christmas MIRACLE!" whenever anything good happened, and "THAT'S not very CHRISTMASSY!" whenever something bad happened, with limited success. I did manage to get my extended family to accuse everyone else of ruining Christmas every ten minutes. Ahh, family gatherings.

Laptop guy and I had a nice conversation about books (this was after I tried to convince him that the wings he'd just eaten had come from my pet chicken, Fluffy) on Thursday night. Doug and Charlie swung by and we went out for late night coffee when I finished work. Then we played poker Friday night and I was sooooo close to winning. Closer than I've ever been before! But stupid Charlie, who's USUALLY bluffing, started getting some good hands. I may never get over it.

Anyway, that's me, updated for the last little while. Not thrilling, but I promise to try and have some adventures in the new year. Maybe I'll even start this week. Get a running start for 2007, as it were.

things you shouldn't say to your mother while she can still return your Xmas presents

ME: (helpfully) I don't think that garland works. (beat) It looks like you were drunk while you did it.

MOTHER: (long pause, dirty look) Well, get in there and fix it, then!

ME: No! You sober up and do it!

warning: work rant

It's a Christmas miracle! My faith in humanity has been temporarily (very temporarily--expect me to be bitter again by tomorrow) restored! I got a table of four hockey dads and their five sons. They weren't TERRIBLE, at first (although Daniel was going to murder me because of the five chocolate milkshakes he had to make), but there was a definite vibe of "ignore the waitress while she stands there politely because we need to discuss HOCKEY, and that is much more important than anything else" coming off them. At least one of the dads is a regular, although they usually sit on the bar side; I only recognized him because the son both badly needs a haircut and also whizzes around the restaurant on those roll-y shoes whenever they come in. Seriously, although I'd like a pair of those shoes myself (it'd be a disaster because of my questionable balance), they really are MENACES. Suddenly, the whole world is a roller rink, but without the fun disco music. And at least you know what you're getting into when you walk into a roller rink. In a restaurant, balancing a tray of drinks, you don't expect a ballistic child to come at you out of nowhere.

Anyway, when they finally got down to the serious business of ordering wings, the dads were all shouting down to the other end of the table about sauces and whether or not their offspring would eat the wings if they were done in such and such a way. The kids merrily ignored them, of course, but the adults managed to place their orders with a minimum of fuss. Off I go. About ten minutes after said wings arrive at the table, another round of beers has been delivered, etc, one of the dads turns to me and says, rudely, "Uh, are the kids getting THEIR food soon?" Blankly, I stare at him. "You didn't order any other food for the kids," I say, confused. He glares at me and bites out, "Well, I THOUGHT you would have ASKED them. Get them some chicken fingers and fries. And can you make that FAST?" So I order his two kids some chicken fingers--the other three kids are, as expected, sharing their dads' wings. I went back to the table to inquire about drinks, and the guy actually says to me, "No, I'm fine. I'm just worried about my boys' food," as if I were deliberately starving his children! "It's on its way," I say, smiling grimly. Ooooh, was I ever mad. When the food did arrive, he bellowed down the length of the restaurant for his sons, who had scarpered off to play games in the bar.

Anyway, to get to the restoration of my faith, the dads all paid separately, and the one who left last tipped me nearly thirty percent and said, "Thanks very much. And, by the way... the rest of us knew he didn't order any food for his kids. Sorry about that." You see, class? Good CAN exist in a restaurant. And thus, a killing spree at the local TJ's was narrowly avoided. I never know what to say to people who apologize for their friends, but it certainly is appreciated.

In other news, one of my coworkers is clearly insane. Laptop guy has been working on a paper and presentation about dinosaurs for the last week or two (pretty much the entire FOH staff knows him and will chat to him now), which has prompted Nicky to treat us all to her theories. Namely, that she doesn't believe in dinosaurs, and that whatever fossils we have are just wrongly re-assembled modern-day animals. This has prompted ME to try and explain science to her in escalating tones until I have a headache and need to leave the room. Even laptop guy (cult member, remember?) says there's too much evidence NOT to believe in dinosaurs. I suspect he believes something about god creating them for some mysterious purpose, but at least he admits they existed. Nicky believes in aliens, but not dinosaurs. And here's another scary fact for you: she's a supply teacher. You kind of have to wonder what the world is coming to.

you say I'd be better off dead, well, I know

It has been officially mandated that the servers wear Christmas "cheer gear" for the next few weeks. I am suspending my ironic detachment (and dignity) for the next little while and I am going to WIN that fifty bucks. I fully intend to wear headbands with antlers, mistletoe, bells, tinsel, or all of the above. Christmas earrings? Check. I wonder if I can find a pair of elf ears?

In other thrilling news, I finally spoke to Sundeep on Friday. Have I explained this bizarre factor of my life to you? I feel like I have not. This guy named Sundeep used to have my cell number, and since I inherited it, I have been fielding calls from confused men who speak to me in Arabic. It's gotten to the point that I assume, when I see an unfamiliar Toronto number come up on my call display, that I'm about to get harangued in heavily accented English for Sundeep's new number. But now, I have it! I don't know why I'm so excited; really, it means that instead of explaining in my most put-upon voice that no, this is no longer Sundeep's number, I'll have to slowly read out his new one--more work for me, pretty much. But somehow it also feels like I've regained control of something, and established real ownership of my phone.

Spent most of today hungover. I went to My Apartment last night with two of my coworkers--well, one is actually one of my bosses--who turned out to be insane party animals. I'd claim to be too old to party like that until five am, but they are five and fifteen years older than me, respectively.

I was feeling pretty low energy at work today, and then an encounter with a table of assholes put me into a really filthy mood. One of the kitchen guys, who is slightly creepy, even on a day when I'm in a good mood, is one of those massager-types. You know, the kind of person who is really touchy-feely, and will decide that the best possible way to soothe an bad temper is to get all shoulder-massagey and huggy and etc. I was pretty much going to kill him. When I'm that angry, I feel like I'm giving off sparks. Why would you want to touch someone who clearly looks like she's going to flip out and murder everyone near her? I'm not a very physical person to begin with, but touch me when I'm in a bad mood and you risk maimings and death. Everyone else had the sense to be frightened of me.

I like feeling that I fit in at a place, and for the most part I don't mind my job. But I can't wait until April, when I'll be elsewhere entirely. My 24th birthday present to me will be my letter of resignation and a truck rental to haul my stuff away to the big city. I wish I had enough financial security to get my very own apartment, all to myself, but reality says no. Stupid expensive Toronto. My first place will probably only be until Jo and Toni can join me, anyway.

it's racially stereotyping day here at TJ's

They had me train someone at work last night! It was very exciting. We weren't too busy (well, we weren't THEN... after all the other servers left I had a late rush and got smoked), so I tried my best to impart my storied wisdom. She used to hostess, so she knows mostly everyone (and she knows more about the restaurant biz than I did when I first started serving), but it was still really strange to try and explain all the things I do habitually. Plus, she's only 18, so she knows next to nothing about alcohol. But apparently the manager told her to pay especial attention to me because she could learn a lot.

I didn't notice how much darting around and weaving I do until I had someone try and follow me through it all. I kept scooting off and losing her. I had a plan to introduce her to my tables as my parole officer, but I never got around to it.

Why would a guy think I'd email him at freestylin_playa_4_realz (or something like that)? Honestly, boys, put a little effort into NOT coming across as a wang.

Best line of the night was when my trainee was commenting on how non-ethnically diverse our staff is, and Chris started listing off all the minorities who work there, and ended with, "And what about Michelle? She's TAN." I laughed about that for like five minutes. It's probably only funny to Jo, who's met her.

to save you from your old ways

Hilarious and random night. I had picked up Martin's cocktail shift, which entails working the five booths in the bar until the dinner rush is over--usually a pretty short and sweet shift. The bartenders, however, decided to show their love for me by playing a practical joke on me. They stole all the stuff out of my servery and left me ransom notes. It WAS really funny, but now I have to exact bloody vengeance.

Anyway, since I finished up at eight thirty on a Saturday night, a trip to the big city to hang with Jamie was in order. I ended up going to a metal/goth/80's/new wave rock bar (Velvet Underground, in case you were wondering) with him and three of his friends, who all turned out to be hilarious cut-ups on the dance floor. I've seriously never seen guys get down with their bad selves like those guys were. I really wish I hadn't been driving, because getting smashed and outrageous with them would have been awesome. As it was, one of them treated us to his tres un-PC views on women, the homeless, and stealing bikes all the way from the bar until I dropped him off.

The only thing was, we were dancing right beside the speakers all night, so I'm having some trouble hearing right now. And I'm sure I'm in for quite the headache tomorrow. But other than that, it was exactly what I needed to bust me out of my doldrums.

of course I'm narcissistic--I'm a drama grad!

I've been thinking quite a bit about egos lately. A friend of mine said something in passing (on his MySpace page, no less... but I don't want to digress into the irony) about blogging about your day to day life and thoughts being narcissistic. And then there's the sharp blow to my sense of self worth (re: that boy problem) that I received recently. The thing is, I know I'm vain, and I probably put a greater value on my own thoughts and talents than everyone else does, but I like to think that the fact that I KNOW that helps me keep it in check. If I'm wrong, please don't tell me about it quite yet--I'm feeling a little fragile today, so let's postpone the discussion of my various faults until another time.

The thing is, though, my particular blend of ego and insecurity makes me flip rapidly between thinking that he's just hesitating because he's missing the cues that I think I'm practically shouting (because who wouldn't go for fabulous me, of course), and feeling completely rejected for being crazy/fat/slutty/boring/hideous/socially inept. You see? I make no sense.

To digress momentarily, this new Blogger beta thing lets you put labels on your posts, and on the function it says "e.g. scooters, vacation, fall." Scooters? What? And while I'm digressing, I cannot stop grooving to the Scissor Sisters' "I Don't Feel Like Dancing." Seriously. Grooooving. It lightens my mood considerably.

And we'll throw it back to our field reporter in the wilds of Susan's brain. Actually, you know what? To hell with that. I'm going to go shower instead, and I'll continue my meditations on egos another time.

this used to be the life but I don't need another one

I am sleep-deprived and hopped up on caffeine, which is much like being drunk, but more uneven. I'm oscillating violently between being completely zoned out and extremely hyper. It is ROUGH over here. I've been on a five closes a week schedule for the past month, and then they throw me on a lunch shift. Luckily it wasn't busy, because bad things would have happened. As it is, I got kicked out of the kitchen because I was telling really bad jokes and giggling to myself, and my boss claimed he just couldn't deal with me. This is what three cups of coffee and no sleep does to me.

Okay, so in today's Star there is a review of a documentary (which I wanna see) called Fuck. I noticed recently that they've pretty much given up on the whole "f---" thing they used to do in the paper. When did that go? I mean, not that I'M offended by it, or anything. But I did read the paper in elementary school, so I'm just wondering if it's entirely appropriate. Swearing is like drinking. You want to do it when you're technically too young for it, but then the shine goes off it when you can do it whenever you want to. I mean, you still do, but some of the glamour is gone. I don't even watch my language around my parents anymore--really, just around my cousins. And I mean, I TRY with Toni's kid sister, but pretty unsuccessfully ("Fuckin'... ... uh, I mean, frootin'.... Damn.").

I guess I can be pretty old fashioned about kids sometimes.

I feel like I'm waiting for some kind of sign to tell me I can stop waiting and life will really start. But what, precisely, am I waiting for?

I have tried, in my way, to be free

I just helped my dad put up our Christmas lights out front. Our light display is always weak at best--just a couple of strings in the maple to show willing and a dash of holiday spirit. There is a certain magic in an artfully lit house at night, I'll admit, but besides that I tend to be apathetic towards these exercises in suburban excess. My brother usually ends up helping Dad do it, and they usually fight, so it was probably a surprisingly untaxing ordeal for him today.

A few weeks ago I was looking forward to the holiday season, but now, with the spectre of gift shopping and businesses bringing their rowdy staffs into MY work for a cheap show of appreciative appeasement looming, I find myself somewhat Scroogey. I just have a sense of impending doom--like it's going to be an unutterably depressing month.

Listening to all this Leonard Cohen probably isn't helping either.

I need a vacation. Of course, I come to this conclusion on a week where I've picked up a shift on one of my days off, and at the beginning of a month when it is impossible for me to book any stretch of time off. I'm feeling like I did before I went to Europe--all desperate and increasingly cranky at work. I was fully picturing stabbing a woman in the eye with a pen last night. She was that particular brand of douchebag that treats waitstaff like they're stupid and lower-class. You can pick them out by the patronizing look in their eyes, and the way they talk reeeeaaally slowwwwly so that the waitress (who MUST be a moron because she is a WAITRESS) can undertand their particular requests. She did not read the menu ("I want a hamburger." "Alright, ma'am, there are four different kinds. The Grill--" "I'll have a hamburger."), and called me over by yelling "HEY!" across the restaurant at me. I could go into the whole saga of this woman and her thrice-damned burger, but my blood pressure is rising again just thinking about it.

I tell you, if I ever win the lottery and have to work a shift that night, it will be the sweetest feeling of release to speak my mind. I'd probably be fired and have to leave (escorted by the plaza security, no less) five minutes after I got my first table, but ohhhh man, it'd be SO worth it.

please understand I never had a secret charm to get me to the heart of this or any other matter

Okay, that boy problem I alluded to a while back? I OFFICIALLY give up now. I fold. I quit. I refuse to be made into the kind of crazy person I'm becoming. Recent developments have only underscored the fact that there must be a line drawn between unneccessary dramatics and really, actually, annoying myself. This better stick, or I'll have to take to slapping myself daily from sheer exasperation.

I should have given my number to that guy tonight. He was a bit of a jackass, but in an amusing way. And he was cute.

Just because I'm aware of my tendency to manufacture drama in my own life doesn't mean I can control it. Tragic but true.

don't you tell me about my cones

Went shopping, and I actually stuck to my guns and bought new work pants and new running shoes. I caved and got Nikes though. My youthful boycott of all things Nike has ended in a pair of shoes that have shiny bits, clear bits, mesh bits, and the ubiquitous swoosh. They're pretty intense. I didn't get the REALLY intense pair though. They were clear all around the sole, so you could see the shocks. Yes, they scared me.

Speaking of things that scare me, I also went ahead and tried on a pair of skinny jeans. I've avoided trying them because of the visceral fear that I would look like an asshat in them, seeing as they are generally intended for women who balance on sticks in lieu of actual human legs. But in a moment of insanity in H&M, I went for it. It was cone-legged city, but they weren't actually AS bad as I thought they'd be. Fear not, I didn't end up buying them.

Shopping for work pants was pretty depressing. Old Navy let me down, so I went to Mark's Work Wearhouse. It is HARD to find a pair of heavyweight, mostly cotton, black dress pants that aren't too long (my cones are short and stubby, alright?), and flatter the bottom (I gotta make tips somehow). But I found a pair that aren't too heinous and had no soccer mom details to them.

Learning the foxtrot tonight, and then it's coffee with my gal Jo.

yes, I'm back on a work rant

Who comes to a place that has a cartoon turtle (wearing a backwards baseball cap and holding a mug of beer, if you were wondering) as its mascot, and then gives the waitstaff attitude because we don't have filet mignon? Also, I am 99% sure that the hair he claimed to have found in his salad belonged to his companion. It was pink and long, and guess who had fading red highlights? You're right, she did. And no one on our staff does.

Sunday night is crazies night. I had a mini-rush an hour before we closed, which was super not fun. My new pet peeve is the couples who use one person as their spokesperson. And I don't mean in the sense that they've discussed their order and one person tells me the whole thing. I mean that I have had many "conversations" that go like this:

A: And he'll have coleslaw with that.
ME: I'm afraid we're out of coleslaw.
A (to B): They're out of coleslaw.
B (to A): No coleslaw?!? Salad then.
ME: Garden, caesar, or Greek?
A (to B): Garden, caesar, or Greek?
B (to A): Caesar.
A (to ME): Caesar.

And so on and so forth, ad nauseum. Usually the B in the equation won't even look at me. Everything is relayed through A. If I do manage to get B to respond to a direct question, it is invariably accompanied by an appalled or dirty look, as though I am breaking some sort of code. I had at least three sets of these types last night.

I hate looking at a table and knowing they're going to be assholes, and then being proved right.

heaven sounds pretty boring anyway

I'm afraid that my crush on laptop guy must end, as evidence is mounting that he is a cult member. He usually comes in by himself, but every now and again another guy would join him, and they would have some kind of intense conversation, one time with a bible on the table. Last night there were five of them, and there was a definite church-group aura wafting off them. And one of them (they paid separate bills) left me a "$1 000 000" bill with his credit card slip that sure is some Christian Evangelical propaganda.

As I think those who know me are aware, not only do I take the lord's name in vain willy nilly, I also don't believe in him. I certainly am not going to "read [my] Bible daily and obey it." I certainly have done more than just "looked" with lust. I'm really pretty appalled that I have this thing sitting on my desk right now.

It's possible that laptop guy is connected with these guys in some completely random, non-culty way. He did stay after they left, which implies... what? Some degree of separation, I guess. But I'm going to re-direct the adultery in my heart at someone else. You really can't have an unrequited love for someone who's convinced you're going to hell.

wait til tomorrow, you'll be fine

I was up until five am this morning. I think it was part crappy sleeping habits, part residual cold symptoms, and part psychological. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to sleep, and so I wasn't. At around three thirty I caved and took a decongestant. I read somewhere that you're not supposed to take them more than three days in a row because you'll get backlash congested (I'm sure they phrased it more medically), so I was trying to get through the night by mouth breathing. Sexy, I know.

Anyway, during my "research" into decongestants, I came across this helpful tip to naturally unplug your nose. You alternately thrust your tongue against the roof of your mouth and press with your fingers between your eyebrows for thirty seconds. This is supposed to make some kind of dealy in your face rock back and forth and encourage it to drain, clearing your sinuses. All I got was a headache. So now I suspect some Dr Jerk is having fun with hapless cold victims via the power of the internet. Like I didn't have enough problems with the whole inability to breathe thing.

November appears to be whizzing by. This only makes me nervous because I feel like I missed something along the way.

fiscal responsibility...

Very strange, but good for a giggle or two.

I think that was the last of the Sudafed anyway

So, that reccomended dosage thing for medication? Apparently people who know stuff set that. What I'm trying to say is, don't take twice the amount of extra-strength Sudafed that you're supposed to. I'm coming off it now, but maaan alive, that was not cool. Dance class this week was even worse than when I was hungover.

Back when I was healthy, I had big plans for today. I was going to the bank, and then going to buy new work pants and shoes (for real this time... no, I really meant to!), and start my Christmas shopping. Instead, I slept until two, then made soup and watched Arrested Development. And then over-medicated and went to dance class. So, a very productive day.

I wonder when I'm going to feel adult.

I should hire someone to kick your ass for that

There's a brutal cold that's going around work, and yours truly is slowwwwly coming down with it. I hate creeper colds. You THINK you can beat it, but really, it's just incubating and testing you with a sore throat and some muscle achiness... and then BAM! Right between the eyes. The whole shebang, coughing, sneezing, stuffed up head....

But foolish optimism is an unfortunate part of my personality, and so I am drinking orange juice and tea like they're going out of style, and lying around in my pyjamas, hoping against hope that this whole thing will just go away. And being unnecessarily dramatic about the whole ordeal, naturally.

At least this is giving me the opportunity to watch Arrested Development. My brother left all three seasons here, and so I'm catching up on a series I knew I'd love, but never got around to seeing.

the name of my blog is getting more apt with each passing day

There's a certain sick comfort in the fact that no matter how retarded my life can get, I have the innate talent required to make it worse.

they're all about duty

First off, what's this Blogger Beta madness all about? I fear change. And the fact that Blogger seems very badly to want me to switch to it makes me... not want to. I guess I'm just feeling crotchety lately. So, someone explain it to me using small words, and then I'll go off on a rant about walking to school in the snow, up-hill both ways, and then beat you with my cane. Sound good?

I find myself oddly fascinated by Michael Ignatieff. I don't even know how to properly pronounce his last name. But whenever the Star, or the Globe, or Maclean's runs a feature on the man, I feel compelled to read it. I've read several "in-depth" articles on him, all of which pretty much said the same things. I don't know what I think of him. I don't know that I'd vote for him. I don't know if he'd make a good prime minister. If I ever met him, I'd be too intimidated by his storied intellect to say a damn word. Bob Rae, now... he's just as smart and educated, but I feel like if I ever met him, I wouldn't immediately have to leave the room crying because I'd just said something completely embarrassing and idiotic. I was just a kid when he was premier, so I don't have all that angst about how he apparently screwed up the province. And I'm more NDP than Liberal, in the grand scheme of things.

Come to think of it, I actually distinctly remember the beginning of this Ignatieff thing. It was an article in Maclean's several years ago. It was about the names being bandied about for worthy successors to Jean Chretien--basically, a search for someone to save the country. I don't think I'd ever heard of him before, but suddenly there his name was, as someone being courted by the Liberal party, but who was turning it down. My curiousity was piqued. I think I thought something vague about duty, and wondering why this "philosopher king" would refuse when his country called. I don't know. I was younger, and idealistic-er.

Enough ramblings about the political atmosphere in Canada. I have to pack an overnight bag and haul ass to the Hammer, where me an my cronies are going to watch some Arrested Development and pretend we're still at 10 Stanley.

extra-strength migraine relief advil is second in the best friend list

I've recently gotten into the habit of brushing my teeth in the shower. I used to do it in first year all the time--if you're lugging your basket of toiletries to the shower stall, it just saves time to brush in the shower rather than pause at the sink... look, a lot of people did it, alright? stop judging me--but now I have no good excuse. In fact, it probably adds to the time I spend in there already. But my mouth feels cleaner, I swear! And I think we can all agree that a cleaner Susan is desirable. I think I started doing it when I was hungover a couple weeks ago, and felt like I needed a inner and outer body scouring.

My ipod is my new best friend, so sucks to the rest of you vying for that position. I'm thinking of MAYBE taking my rando Mexican dance music off of it, because how often am I in the mood for it, really? The best part of that cd was blasting it obnoxiously when I was doing the dishes at 10 Stanley to passive-aggressively punish my roommates (oh, like you didn't know that's what it was about, you guys... although the time I was REALLY mad it was directed at FuckFace). But it is kind of fun music. Meh. We'll see if the shuffle function takes a liking to it. There's only so much of it I can take.

I'm feeling restless lately; the desire to do something drastic is taking hold. Liiiike... getting a pixie cut and dying my remaining hair fire engine red. Oooh, can you imagine how much I'd cry after that? I am such a suck about my hair. I mean, I yell at the tv when those clowns on ANTM or What Not to Wear whine about getting all their hair chopped off, but... no, wait. If someone was paying for a famous salon dude to give me a fabulous new look, I'd friggin' suck it up. They're the experts, and I am merely a schmo who has no idea how to talk to a hair stylist.

it's here!

Hurray! I'll never doubt FedEx tracking ever again! Fantabulous! And here, unveiled, is my glorious inscription:

Susan
innate kung fu skillz

It's ingenious because it's ironic, it's vaguely threatening, it alludes to my mysterious ethnicity, AND it's completely untrue! It's pretty much everything I was looking for in an engraving.

ramblings about my day

Today was a full day. I woke up at six twenty, showered, and drove to London to be on Emo's Fanshawe TV Morning Show. She was producing, so, being somewhat qualified in the performing arts, and having nothing to do in the mornings (besides sweet sweet sleep, but more on that later), I took this opportunity to practice being charming in front of a camera. It was good solid times; apparently most of the guests are somewhat stilted, and we all know that I am a narcissistic ham in front of a camera, so how could I fail? It was weird meeting her posse in person, because I've seen so many youTube videos of them (and vice versa) that I felt like I'd already known them for awhile. Anyway, I was interviewed about my experiences as a television and film extra, so I nattered on about various things that I only vaguely remember--what? It was a whole year ago, alright? I gotta make room for new stuff in my head. Why am I getting confrontational on my blog again? Shut up, that's why.

Em and I grabbed lunch at Kelsey's. I had a ridiculous burger. It was delicious, but filling. Then we hung out for a bit, but we were both completely zonked. I hadn't seen that side of the morning in awhile, and she'd pulled an all nighter to prepare for the rigours of production. So I drove back home and immediately broke my resolution not to nap anymore. But it's a good thing I did, because we learned the basics of jive at ballroom tonight (ROUGH), and then Jo and I grabbed dessert at TJ's, where those bastards didn't have the Turtle Pie I'd come expressly for. I reccomend it to people constantly, but I've never actually had it. But giggles were had and Jo was exposed to some of my coworkers, but unfortunately missed catching a glimpse of laptop guy.

If apple.com and FedEx are to be believed, I should have my ipod around noon tomorrow. And then I will share my inscription with the world.

I really enjoy My Chemical Romance's new single. I used to listen to their cd because someone had abandoned it in the costume shop, so whenever I forgot to bring my own (and Denis wasn't around... he was more of a classical music kind of guy, although he appreciated my Lovin' Spoonfuls cd), I'd just load 'er up. Can't remember any of the songs in any detail, but this "Welcome to the Black Parade" song is striking a chord with me for some reason. It's odd, because it doesn't seem like the kind of thing I'd be into. I'm renewing my love for Elliott Smith as well. This ipod project is fun!

Man. I don't actually have anything of particular interest to say. I just felt like rambling to someone, and what is this blog for if not a receptacle for my unnecessary thoughts?

I see you're climbing a tree and I know that it's easier to be high up in the air than the ground

The ipod has been ordered, and apple.com has informed me that it has been shipped! I'm pretty excited. I'll tell you what I got engraved when it gets here; I don't know why I'm feeling like telling you now would be spoiling a surprise of some kind, because most of you are not even going to see the damn thing, but there you have it. I want it in my hot little hands before I publish my witty genius to the world. Mother will not be impressed, I'm going to tell you that right off.

I'm strangely addicted to Chelsea Hotel #2 by Leonard Cohen right now. My new project is to fill up my computer with songs to put on my ipod, and I loaded the two disc Essential Leonard Cohen. itunes took a shine to it, and kept playing it when I turned on the shuffle (shuffle on itunes is low on the actual shuffle, I've discovered... it picks its favourites, and you're damn lucky if that coincides with yours).

I've decided to boycott naps entirely. Yesterday I actually worked a daytime shift, and man alive, it was rough. I was making rookie mistakes and generally wandering around in a haze. Apparently I need more than one cup of coffee if I'm to function before four pm. Closing the night before probably didn't help. Anyway, after I got home, I ate dinner and then passed right out from eight thirty to eleven thirty. And then I was up until five this morning. Not cool, dude. This week all five shifts are closes, so at least I'll have some consistency. Now I've had a whole bunch of coffee and sugar, so tonight should be alright until I crash. It occurs to me that I'm probably not as healthy as I could be.

my new favourite comic strip, for realz

just forget the world

Hungover again. I ended up going out with an old friend, Tiff, who I've known since elementary school, but rarely see anymore. We've always kind of been peripheral friends--in the same general group, but closer to other people within it. She's doing her masters in some kind of science-y, bio-y, medicine-y thing at UofT. What I mean by that is I have no clue what she's actually doing. Anyway, it was some kind of classmate get-together, which was a little weird for me, being a kooky drama grad from Guelph. Three of the other girls were petite, Asian, non-drinkers. I had my four-inch heels on, red lipstick, and was demonstrating the shopping cart dance (Tiff was not impressed). I kind of feel like I'm the type of person they wouldn't ordinarily be exposed to socially. The club was alright, but I never really go clubbing anymore, so I was appalled by the expensive drinks and the wannabe Euro-trash guys. Still, I got drunk and danced foolishly when they played selections of oldies near the end of the night, so good times.

I had a moment where I thought perhaps all these studious science types would judge me for being a waitress with a degree in drama, but then I mentally slapped myself. I've never wanted that life, so what's the point in feeling inadequate?

Jo accused me of having feelings today, that ho

I have hilariously, and, to be frank, typically, made my boy problem even worse. It's straight out of poor chick lit. I actually used the phrase, "If you don't know why I'm mad at you, you don't DESERVE to know." Tragic. I give up. Life is too short to be as idiotic as this. Remind me not to drink doubles anymore.

My piratey dance partner and I were both hungover for ballroom tonight. Doing fast spins in the cha-cha on an iffy stomach is probably not reccomended by the surgeon-general. We power-sauced through, however, and managed not to screw up too much. Afterward, we went to his old workplace for a drink. I really wish I could work fine dining. Too bad my resume has places like Nickel's and Jose's Noodle Factory on it. I can't even take me seriously.

Well, November's off to quite the start. I feel like this month is going to be hellish. Prove me wrong, November. Prove me wrong.

happy halloween!

If this isn't legible, go to http://www.unitedmedia.com/comics/pearls/ and read today (October 31)'s comic. I pretty much laughed for like five minutes straight.

I don't actually mind pants so much

So I'm buying myself an ipod nano as a reward for generally being awesome. Jo and Toni and I are like pack buyers; it's pretty sad, and also pretty hilarious. Here's my problem: you can get a free engraving on the back, right? Well, what is a girl to get permanently etched onto her music-lugging device? Jo and Toni got their nicknames (well, in Toni's case, I like to think of it as her REAL name... that whole Christina thing was just a misguided phase), and Jo added a succinct description of the way she lives her life (it says, "JOWIE, hater of pants" on it, in case you were wondering). However, although over the years I have been variously known as Subu, Subutron, Suze, The Sooze, Susie, Suzy Q, Susamaphone, Maphone, Phone, Phoneamaphone, Suki, Subi, Sue, Swayzan, Uncle Sushi, and Sexkent, none of them have really got any staying power. I remain, basically, Susan. So there's our first line, done. But I want something else on there, something guaranteed to make me smile when I see it.

Unfortunately, things that amuse me change without notice. Even phrases that I over-use fade in and out of my conversation rapidly. Six months ago, it might have been something like, "eat a bag," or "double balls!" A year ago, Lindz might have tried to con me into getting "S'n Ds 24/7," althought I never said it as much as she did.

Here are the options I've come up with; feel free to add anything clever you can think of. It can't be more than 23 characters.

unnecessary dramatics
the world is my mollusk
I have a BAH, you know
stop ruining my life
consider the lily

The last one there is from Brian's brief sermon in "Life of Brian." Incidentally, Susan means lily. See what I did there? Anyway, I'm going to take a few days to mull 'er over.

merman... mer-MAN

So the prodigal son is moving home in a month or two. Which is good because he'll take some of the brunt of parenting off me, and I'll probably rarely see him, having a completely different schedule than the one he'll hopefully have. But it's also very BAD, because I'll have to share a bathroom again (you have no idea how many girly products I have strewn everywhere. I'd be sickened, but they're MINE), and I know that when I do see him, he's going to drive me batty.

I won't go into the whole saga of his drama--although, if you're curious, just stick around... I'll probably get super p.o.'d at him and spill all the beans in a big long rant EVENTUALLY--suffice it to say, it's going to be a rocky few months until I fly the coop. Speaking of which, I'm half-way to the financial goal that will signal that move-out time is nigh.

Listen to "Before You Leave" by Thrush Hermit. It's a little bit country at first (and also a little bit rock'n'roll, to be perfectly Osmondy about it), but it's another of Rob's reccomendations, and I just keep listening to it. The end reminds me of a Weezer song.

I was watching Zoolander for the umpteenth time the other night, and goddamn, that movie is good. Everytime I watch it, I start giggling helplessly at a different part. This time it was the line, "I've never even heard of it. Me and my friends have been too busy bathing off the coast of St Bart's with spider monkeys for the past two weeks." Hey, being easily amused is part of my charm, alright? Zoolander might possibly be more quotable than Anchorman.

Spending time with my best ladieZ tonight. Jo and I are heading to the Hammer to kidnap ourselves a Toni. Much giggling will be done, I assure you.

oh frabjous day! calloo, callay!

OKAY, so I've been switched to an on-call dinner shift for the Halloween party! This means that Susan is getting RIOTOUSLY drunk at said party, instead of standing behind a bin of beer, nursing her massive wound of disgruntlement. Apparently, I was originally supposed to do it, but the other chick asked for the shift, but they forgot to take it off my schedule. Golden! By the way, in case you thought I was exaggerating when I say that she's the staff slut, she's going as a slutty Red Riding Hood, with a basket of condoms and lube to distribute.

Now I just need a hot costume, with a downgrade on the slutty. I'm not going to tell you how slutty the costume I came up with was; suffice it to say, I probably would have been jumped by kitchen guys in the fridge everytime I went in there for the next three weeks. It was the kind of thing you put on for your boyfriend when you want his attention.

Speaking of boys, my boy problem... well, still there, but undefinably somehow better. I feel less ridiculous about my own foolishness. It's still very stupid, but I have a better idea of where I stand.

beverly, my old friend!

So I'm putting a halt on my rage-filled, work-related blog entries for a little while. I'm getting sucked in; work is becoming my world. I haven't seen my best ladies in a few weeks, so I'm getting all crazed and losing my already tenuous hold on reality. I usually rant to Jo and Toni about various work shit and then it's out of my system; when I can't do that, it stays in and swirls around, even with the venting to my blog. But hopefully I'll see one or both of them this week, and I'll regain my equilibrium.

Unfortunately, if I can't talk about work, there's precious little else I CAN talk about, because I have no life. I'm going to bed now, so maybe I'll come up with something soon. If not, expect an onslaught of 80's music videos, because Rob has reminded me of many songs from my youth, and I like to share the love.

I'm the employee of the month, and I get to work the party... what the hell?

I am angry and depressed. Not only am I working DURING the staff Halloween party, I am actually working AT the party. So I have to stand there and serve everyone who's having a good time, instead of having the off-chance of being done early enough to enjoy a bit of the fun. Beer fucking bin. And the other girl picked for this inestimable privilege? The staff slut, who will inevitably be wearing something twice as scandalous as the most provocative outfit I could scrape together, and will therefore be making all of whatever money is to be made off of the drunken staffs of every TJ's in Ontario. Next Monday, will someone please kill me so I won't have to work on Tuesday?

I thought I was done with whoring it up for work when I quit the Palace.

Fuck. I don't want to think about it. So here, here is quite probably the most random video you will ever see. A guaranteed WTF? for every first-time viewer.

I wonder what it'd be like to have a life right now

Slept in until two today. I feel pretty good about that, except for the fact that now it's raining, so I'm skipping ye olde jog. Maybe I should just stop fighting it, and accept the fact that I'll be mostly nocturnal for the next little while. I've stayed after work for some beers the last couple nights, so I'm getting the rudiments of normal social interaction. Plus, what do I even do all day, anyway? Nothing. That's what. I'm probably going to crap out on painting my toenails today, even. Wow. Sorry, a wave of crushing depression just hit me. Why is October the longest of all months? September just whipped by.... I bet November will be even worse. And then we'll start having office groups come in for their lame Christmas parties. April can't come soon enough.

It's to the point that regulars are commenting on how much I work. "Wow, you're here ALL THE TIME." One of my coworkers was like, are you okay with working so much? And I said, "Well, I need money, and I have no life. What else would I be doing? Incidentally, do you have any shifts you'd like to get rid of? No, really."

Here's a random funny for you. I have no idea who this Sky Nellor woman is, but what they say about her made me giggle.

As you may have discerned from previous entries, I am having a boy problem. See, having been told things about being hard to read, and the way I'm reading HIM, I'm half-convinced that I'M being the roadblock here. He can have what I think he's after, no problem (well, some problems, but sometimes you have to leap before you look)... he just has to come right out and ask for it. I'm not just going to start whipping it at him out of nowhere. Hmm. That sentence just got very anatomically improbable. Moving on.

The irony is, I have a creeping suspicion that I'm slowly being friend-zoned, which is where I tend to stick guys with no compunction at all. Karma's a bitch.

Oh well, I'm sure I'll get over it soon enough. I'm pretty fickle when it comes to these things anyway.

the other thing about community theatre is that it's like a black hole... you don't escape once you're in that orbit

So one of my coworkers, Martin, just got the EXACT SAME RING TONE AS ME. This probably means that we're soulmates, but it also means that I have to at least consider changing it again. It literally took me hours to pick that one in the first place, so I'm probably going to leave it. But I'm going to consider other options. I think the best of all scenarios would be if Martin and I were hanging out and then the song came on and we both scrambled for our phones like dorks. Seriously though, what are the odds?

The Sound of Music is on at our local community theatre, which, joy of joys, meant that hordes of community theatre types and the associated children descended on the restaurant at eleven thirty. I was actually thinking about seeing it, because one of the regulars is playing Max, and he's a total sweetheart. But now? NO. The restaurant was filled with bratty hyper kids demanding refills and ice cream and screaming while their parents drink beer. Trying to keep straight who was paying for what when parents are cancelling their children's orders and splitting nachos with other mothers was not an exercise in fun. Plus, half the orders were under Martin's ID, and half under mine, because in their desperate quest for food and beer, people just yelled orders at whichever red shirt they saw first. So I had to chase down Martin and say things like, "The lady who's having a soda at table 33's kid, who's at table 22, wants some ice cream." The nature of our computer system is such that combining bills is a total bitch, so the best way to do things is to ring each family's orders in together.

Basically, kill me. And my coworkers kept being all, theatre folk? Aren't they your people anyway? Now, tell me if I'm being unreasonable when I say that I have a BAH in Drama, and therefore have the divine RIGHT to be snobby towards community theatre. Please, can't I be elitist about something? These are suburban upper-middle class types with a hobby. I live the life, people! I'm not officially a struggling actor yet, but oh, I will be. And in the meantime, I'm slinging rootbeer suds and listening to a horde of amateurs stroke each others' egos. It's unimaginably depressing. I know I'm far from being a professional actor, but I've at least got a leg up on SOMEONE in this world, right?

the subtext of Peter MacKay calling Belinda Stronach a dog is BITCH

So I was sitting at the kitchen table just now, nursing my hangover, and reading the Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail. Newspapers are a kind of security blanket for me; I'm definitely going to miss them when I move out. I don't always read them; I just like to know they're there if I want to read them. Anyway, to the point, here's the Star article, and here's the Globe one, and I'm going to blather about my thoughts. It's probably going to be incoherent and long.

Last night we went to a pretty divey bar, we being me and two coworkers. I've never hung out with anyone from TJ's outside of work, so it was new all around. Anyway, the last time I'd been to this particular divey bar I was nineteen, and some skeezy men in their forties tried to teach me and my friends to play pool. It was hip hop night or something yesterday. I hate to racially stereotype, but I find that black guys tend to show their interest by staring intensely. Whatever works for you, I guess, but I find it pretty discomfiting. Pretty often they don't even smile at you if you look right at them. It objectifies me--yes, I dressed up a certain way to be looked at, but admiration and a naked sexual desire are two different reactions.

There's a quotation from Michelle Landsberg in the sidebar to the Star article about girls today thinking that sexual power is empowerment. I think it's about control; women have the illusion of control over their sexuality, but it's a scary world out there. There's so much sexual violence, and still that double standard about sluts and players.... What is empowerment, anyway? I feel empowered when I feel attractive, but maybe I'm just responding to society's demand that women BE attractive objects, and am feeling fulfilled because I've succeeded.

My current job does not really put a premium on book smarts; the career I'm hoping for doesn't either. It's unlikely that I'll ever feel empowered by respect for my brains. It's not that I MIND being admired for my looks--I had enough of an ugly duckling phase to make compliments a minefield of insecurity and booming ego highs, but I do enjoy attention--I just wonder about the implications. And my discomfort with a penetrating male gaze speaks to a basic unwillingness to be so... cheapened.

Which sort of brings me around to the second article (which, incidentally, reminds me of that Family Guy episode when Brian's off somewhere, and Lois gets all weepy because his favourite commercial is on). Intellectually, I know that sex, and a vagina in particular, is not dirty and unnatural, but I feel the effects of the media and ribald jokes that tell me different. It's lead to a weird disconnect about sex in my mind, which is only exacerbated by the sexual power stuff perpetuated by Cosmopolitan and similar garbage that tells me I should want and flaunt. So, dirty and slutty and wrong? Or sexy and powerful and natural? And if it's the latter, how do I make that stick in my head enough to be able to ignore all the other shit that comes my way?

I had stilettos and red lipstick on last night. If I'd been sexually assaulted, there's a teeny part of my brain that would whisper that it was at least partially my fault. Just because I know better than that doesn't mean it wouldn't be there. Is it empowering that I can go to a skeezy bar and get drunk, or would it be more empowering to not make myself an object like that? Rape is about violence and power. Cosmo runs articles about boosting your man's ego. Don't emasculate him. It's biological. Knights in shining armour.

In my fiercer moments, I'm fine with the male ego taking a hit when I assert my independence. In my weaker moments, I fear the backlash. I'd like to find a balance between fearless and cautious.

a direct order

I am SUPER drunk right now; do NOT let me text message ANYONE.

a bit of musicality, please!

I am incredibly sleepy right now, but naps always make me logey. I mean, I still take them from time to time, but I try not to if I can avoid it. Naptime is practically a course on most campuses; a university education is incomplete unless you've blown off SOMETHING for a nap. But I've only managed to wake up from one feeling refreshed once. It was glorious. But I'm not going to keep chasing the dragon.

Last night was another brutal night at work. It was the local high school's commencement, so at around quarter to midnight, a bunch of parties of tricked out punks rolled in and demanded chicken fingers. My pet peeve when I go out is a rude server, but maaaan oh man. We're right next door to a McDonald's, kiddies. You want fries and chicken fingers? GO THERE. It's a third of the price, and you won't have me standing there glaring at you. Every server knows that teens who tip are in the minority. Choppy and I were swearing blue streaks. I pretty much gave up on offering any sort of service--if I have three large parties of idiot kids who suck back their drinks in five seconds, no one is getting a refill. Them's the breaks. I was there for over an hour of extra time because I couldn't do any of my closing duties while the morons were milling around. At least if it's drinking age assholes I have a fighting chance of making a few shekels off them.

I am getting DRUNK tonight. It's been a very long week. One of the managers is leaving, so we're all hanging out in the bar to wish him well, and then a bunch of us are heading to a different bar to be rowdy. Really, I just enjoy the excuse to dress up, but I am going to miss Jamie. His replacement is a halfie like me though. Japanese and German, from what I hear. We're like, double neighbours! She looks more Asian than I do.

Had my first ballroom dance class on Wednesday. We suck, but we're not the absolute worst. I have trouble following. Pretty damn glad I'm absolved from leading, but there are all these cues you have to pick up on in order to follow correctly. We're working on the rhumba, so I keep picturing myself in Strictly Ballroom. Like, the beginning part when Fran turns the wrong way, and etc. That's me. Only worse. But just you wait... soon enough, I'll be tearing up dance floors across the nation. With my razor shoes.

now, I need a change of scenery

My new song obsession is "By the Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. It's a grower, so if you actually go out of your way to listen to some of the music I talk about, you're going to have to listen to it a couple times before you love it. It's another rando that Rob sent me, and I admit to saying a hearty, "What the shit am I listening to?" at first. But I should not have doubted the all-mighty Rob and his stellar taste in music.

I'm feeling kind of down lately. I know a big chunk of that is hormonal--it's unfortunate that knowing these things doesn't make it go away--and another chunk is general existential angst, and then there's things I'm not going to go into here. It just feels like life in general is dragging by, but MY life, in particular, is wasting away fast.

Oh well. I'm sure I'll snap out of it shortly. The good thing about being on a roller coaster of emotion is that the downs don't last that long either.

the problem with "the customer is always right" is that the customer is generally a friggin' idiot

Nuts to the guys who can't order wings competently; I have a new arch nemesis. Idiot mothers. Specifically, the idiot mother who brought her 12 year old and his four sidekicks for a birthday dinner today. She didn't have her glasses, so she made me read sections of the menu out loud, and then tried to repeat them to her wards, who were too busy putting pepper in each others' drinks to pay even the tiniest bit of attention. The nicest kid was the Asian one, whose order was dispensed with quickly--except for the fact that the idiot woman asked him three times what his order was so she could tell me. Three times after he'd told me and I'd already written it down. Then, she asks me if we have hot dogs. No, I said. Sausages? NO, I said. It seriously took me ten minutes to take six food orders. I ended up deciding what some of them would eat mostly on my own. At the end of that particular ordeal I was an entirely different human than the perky, optimistic young lass who'd started work only fifteen minutes before. I would go so far as to say that I was a shambling wreck. But then I actually had to serve them their food, which was delightful, as the kids had occupied their time by emptying the ketchup and salt into a cup of iced tea. "There's something wrong with my drink, can I get a refund?" they shouted joyfully at me as I deposited their food. By the time they'd left, the cup had celery and chicken wings floating in it, and they'd kept demanding their "refund" every time I walked by.

Then I had to bring out the birthday cake she'd brought and sing. I really wasn't going to sing, but Maria helped me bring the plates out, and she started, so I had to join in. And then the little angels decided not to eat the cake, but instead to run around the restaurant. So we had to pack the cake back up and get the bill, which came to $100.26. The woman hunts me down and, with the air of conveying a favour, says, "Here. One hundred and five dollars and twenty-six cents!" I thank her civilly, thinking that I would give HER ten dollars to leave RIGHT NOW. But three of the kids have gone missing, so she and the other two roam the restaurant for ten minutes, until she thinks to ask someone about them, which is when Jamie tells her that three kids went tearing off into the parking lot a while ago.

And then I have to clean the table and refill the salt and sugar shakers.

So I was not in the most tolerant of moods when a bunch of guys came in later, bypassed the hostess stand, and started hauling tables together. "Can I HELP you?" I ask, appalled. Does no one understand how restaurants WORK anymore? "We need two tables, so we're just going to move these ones." I grit my teeth and help them. They chose the worst possible place for their little party, so I made a point of hip-checking their chairs everytime I went by, and greeting their feeble attempts at flirting with stony-faced indifference and cold politeness. Their leader fully planned to make me stand there while they nattered amongst themselves about what to order, so I just walked away. I pretty much hate corona night with a passion.

can't wait for someone to call me in public

I've been doing some extensive research on men (and by extensive, I mean reading Cosmo articles that purport to contain breaking news on the subject), and apparently, they don't pick up on hints. Is this true? Like, really true, not like, "stereotypically, men walk around in sex- and sports-induced stupors unless you beat them over the head with a two-by-four that has your message engraved on it, and then read it to them." Not that I'm technically unwilling to perform similar acts of violence, it just seems like a lot of work to get a 2x4 engraved.

Of course, I've often been told I'm hard to read, so maybe the hints I give are just so cunningly crafted that no one can pick up on them at all. Perhaps I should start using total bluntness. "Hi there. You sir, are one fine piece of ass, and I, for one, would like to take off your pants and make you a man."

But I just don't think I've cultivated the kind of personality that would allow me to get away with saying that sort of thing. Plus, I have a deep-seated fear of vulnerability and intimacy. And my inscrutability is part of my charm.

I settled on a new ring tone after a long period of dithering. From "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys, I've now moved on to "It's Not Unusual" by Tom Jones. Just to give you some idea of my general criteria when it comes to these things, I had the Muppet Show theme on my first phone. I almost went with a Backstreet Boys song, just for the irony, but since I'm of the appropriate age to have been a rabid fan back in the day, I was worried that people wouldn't understand the hilarity factor. And then I was tempted by songs I actually listen to regularly, but since I got freaked out whenever I heard "Good Vibrations" playing anywhere, I decided it was best to stick with something less popular. But no less amazing. So there you have it, Tom Jones.

it's advisable to try this sort of thing at home

screw Gnarls Barkley, here's some classic Weezer

one day I'll see my little Pepe again

So I'm probably going to post the video for Gnarls Barkley's Gone Daddy Gone, but beyond that we'll take a short programming break from all these rando music vids. Back to news of Susan's assorted crazies!

There is this guy who works at the barber shop at one of the local malls (it's the 'Saugs, we love our malls here), and every time I've seen him he's told me I'm beautiful. Which is nice, but also very strange. I don't suspect him of having ulterior motives (he seems pretty flaming), I just wonder if he does this habitually to girls. Does he remember having done this several times to me in particular? Each time, I'm just walking by, minding my own business. It's unnervingly flattering.

I just want to take a moment to remind the world that waitresses have better things to do than stand around, halfway through taking an order, whilst you talk amongst yourselves. I am all for unobtrusive service, but there's a difference between that and being invisible. And boy howdy, am I sick of feeling invisible. If you need time to decide, I am more than happy to scarper off and do some of the other million things I have to do. I would say that chatty middle-aged ladies are the worst for this, but after last night I've revised my opinion to say that twenty-something guys deciding on beer or wings are the ultimate perpetrators.

While I'm on the topic, people who spend ten minutes scouring our menu and then hand it to me and say, "Wings, please," and then turn to their companions for a cozy conversation are a scourge on the planet. We have two different types of wings, two different ways of prepping them, three different ways of finishing them off, and nineteen different wing sauces. They come by pounds. And the computer is going to ask me for a verdict on all of those, so you can bet your sweet patootie that I'm going to raise my voice and ask you about every damn one of those decisions in an artificially sweet and reasonable tone.

I'm sure glad I spent four years on a BAH so I could rhyme off the list of side dishes for each person at the table, too.

I guess you could say I'm a little bitter lately. But I made good money this week. My savings account balance is half-way to where I want it before I move out. AND, almost more importantly, I found a sweater at Old Navy with patches on the elbows. LOVE!

Last night one of my coworkers and I talked the new kid into thinking I was 36. It started when I called him muffin, and then when he tried to use it on me I told him I was like, twice his age. I was joking, but Choppy ran with it, and then I had to back him up, of course. I think I went too far when I started talking about my son, Pepe, and how I'd promised to be home in time to read him a bedtime story. I definitely crossed the line when I referred to his birth as a Christmas miracle.

Finally, are there any rules to carrying on a clandestine affair? I merely ask for information.

probably Toni's the only one who will get a kick outta this

Emo sent this tidbit my way, and it really is pretty brilliant. Star Trek: TNG cut to Bohemian Rhapsody. Enjoy.

In View by the Tragically Hip

At first I got annoyed with all the stoppings of the music, but then there's a chase scene that lasts the rest of the video! What's not to like about that?

I've named it Groucho

Aaand we're back on my very own compy. Well, the shell of my compy. I pretty much flipped out after some ridiculousness re: getting my computer professionally cleaned, and used the ol' restore disk. So I've lost my music, due to my pre-wiping compy not liking burning cds at all. It's been a very rough day. I tore my room apart to find software and the like, and now am left with the aftermath of my crazies. But all the random shit that Emo had left on here is gone, and I am feeling cautiously optimistic about re-building. I do mourn the loss of my tuneskis tragically, so those of you who are on my messenger list will be pelted by requests for replacements. But heigh-ho, c'est life. At least I can hide in my room with internet again.

and I shot down the moon for you, that's right

I'm pretty much addicted to that song by Gomez (second of the three videos I posted the other day). And since I'm punking the use of my parents' computer these days, I just keep playing the video on YouTube and minimize the window. You know what word looks super funny if you stare at it a lot? Minimize. Minimize. Should that have been minimizing in that sentence? Did I lose all of my aptitude with tenses when I left school? Should I stop thinking about it and move on? Yes.

I am at total loose ends today. I'm going to take my computer in to the shop finally, and I have to go for a jog at some point. But I haven't had a Wednesday off since Europe, I think, and it feels very strange. Dance classes start tonight, but my partner's cancelled on me. He couldn't get tonight off work. I guess that makes us even, because I couldn't make it to the pirate festival with him in August. Seriously, I know the strangest people.

It worries me that I'd rather work all week and make some money than have a day off. I need a life, stat. Or a good book to read. Incidentally, I read The Da Vinci Code last week. You know what Dan Brown needed? A quality ghost writer. The ideas and whatnot were stellar. The writing, not so much. At least it was a quick read. But I can't help but wonder what Neal (fuckin') Stephenson would have done with the same information. Maybe I'll re-read The Diamond Age. The only thing about his books are their total lack of purse-portability. For serious, they're all these huge tomes. The paperbacks pack some serious heft.

Missed Studio 60 this week. I'm not super broken up about it, though, because it's just not as amazing as The West Wing. Oh, Martin Sheen. My love for you is sick and weird.

we won't let the others bleed us dry

So I made the mistake of telling one of my coworkers about my unrequited infatuation with that laptop guy, and she practically interviewed him yesterday. And then set me up to serve him when he came in again today. AND told everyone else who was working, so for the rest of the night all I heard was, "So, how's your boyfriend doing?" And everyone had to walk by his table and check him out. And I'm almost positive that if he'd been paying attention, he could have heard most of the discussion surrounding him, because the kitchen is never a subtle place in our restaurant.

And apparently the kitchen guys have a theory that I'm a freak in bed.

Not much actual working took place today, as you may have guessed. Besides a party of seventeen demanding Irish people, I wasn't very busy. Despite the fact that they all said, "Thank you, love," in a charming accent, I pretty much hated them. I am TOO doing something with my acting skillz.

Thanksgiving was pleasant, despite the inevitable questions surrounding my future. I hate feeling like I have to justify myself to my relations, even though I will never have the kind of life they'll understand or respect. I'll never have a "real" job, and I don't plan on getting married, spawning, and settling in suburbia. But explaining that takes too much energy, and I don't have the kind of diplomatic skills that would allow me to negotiate that conversation without implying that I consider them "the man" in my "damn the man" lifestyle. My uncle asked me how the job hunting was going, and I said, "Job hunting?! I HAVE a job." The wind went out of my sails when he asked what I was doing and I said waitressing, but it was a good moment for a second there.

Alright, here are some fantabulous music videos for you to enjoy:

a bonehead thing I did today

So you remember when I was talking about side duties, and the assigning thereof? Well, we have a whiteboard in the kitchen area on which the closing server posts said duties. That whiteboard is forever besmirched. In my own defense, though, who puts a permanent marker on a whiteboard ledge? I am never going to hear the end of this one.

whorey, but not in a common way

Okay, I seriously just laughed so hard at this that I cried a little. I admit to a slight and shameful addiction to Cosmopolitan--look, I just crave the over-done girly stuff every now and then, alright? I don't have a subscription or anything; I just need to buy it once every three months or so. Jeeez. But anyway, the fake quiz is genius, and even funnier if you know precisely what is being spoofed.

In simultaneously depressing and uplifting news, I am employee of the month. I think I get a pin. And possibly dinner. I'm pretty sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I named all of the servery garbage bins (by the way, most of my coworkers figured out that I was the one who'd done it without even asking... I'll chalk that up to my effervescent personality, and not to the fact that many of them think I'm crazy).

Leeetle crush on one of the regulars at work. He comes in by himself with his laptop and watches Daily Show and Colbert Report clips on YouTube every now and then. And he's hot. Good gravy, I need a life. Stupid work.

no, I divined it

The first bit is my all-time favourite scene from The West Wing; whoever posted it on YouTube also stuck on the stamp-collecting conversation from an entirely different season.

plenty on my mind

I have lots to say right now, for some reason, and it's not all connected. So if you stay with this post for the long haul, good on ya.

I was reading this morning about the school shooting of Amish girls, and for some reason it affected me more than reading about the Dawson incident or any of the other attacks that have happened recently. I mean, for starters, it was an attack on the Amish--who have really, for serious, never hurt anybody. Like, I'm sure I've been cruel to people (not execute-me-cruel, but still, pretty mean), but who could find a reason to hate the Amish?

But I guess what really got me was the fact that the newspapers were speculating that the shooter held some sort of grudge, and that led him to single out the girls. He let the boys go. That brings up shades of the Polytechnique shooting, which is a story that has always held a particular creeping horror for me--and probably for every woman who's heard it. I don't think men fully understand how intensely vulnerable women feel sometimes. To be a victim of violence simply because you are female... it's something that is always in the back of your mind.

I am a feminist; I've never had the sort of problem with the word that many women my age seem to. I would say that I'm cautious about using the word only when I don't feel like getting into a fight about it. It gets exhausting to explain over and over again that feminists don't hate men, we want equality, and no, we don't have that equality yet. As for any emasculation that men have to suffer through while they adjust to women's changing roles, well, I refuse to believe that the male ego is any more fragile than a female's. At least men can still walk home alone at night, and they don't have to feel physically vulnerable if a man's gaze lingers too long.

But I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how much I've changed over the past six years or so. I used to have a reputation in high school for being opinionated and argumentative. I can still get into it if I care about something enough--but do I care less now? Have I just realized how little I actually know, and am refusing to shoot my mouth off about things I haven't actually researched in depth?

Or, have I sold out to the man? Have I become a half-hearted feminist? Is the fact that I don't stand up for myself as much any more connected to a quiet acquiescence of my role as female subject to a male will in a patriarchal world?

Alright, now we're getting theoretical. And while I often adore theory, my mind doesn't feel clear enough right now to sort it all out. So, on to the next thing I'm mad about. Which is, now that I think about it, somewhat connected.

There's a co-worker of mine--let's call him K--who has recently moved from working solely in the kitchen to having a few shifts hosting and bussing. He's trying to make the jump to server; this is the step in between. And every front of house shift he has, he's driven me batty. To put it succinctly, he's a whiny little bitch. That, however, may be a hold-over from the kitchen; this is seriously the whiniest kitchen staff I've ever encountered. But let's stay focused on K for now. I think you might not understand how intensely irritated I get with him because tones don't translate well over type. Anyway, in today's incident, we're both standing at the dish pit, scraping plates, when he says, "What I want to know is, why don't the hosts get tips?" What he really meant was, here I am, doing all the work for all you lazy-ass servers, and you're making all the money. I said, coldly, that the hostesses get tip-out. What I SHOULD have said was, "Not only do I do the serving for the table, I also end up bussing my tables and seating them a lot of the time, and I get paid less than minimum wage. I also have to put up with the hostesses making amateur mistakes AND listen to the kitchen staff bitch and moan, not to mention greet alarming rudeness from customers with a smile. I earn every damn penny I make, and you, sir, can shove it up your ass."

But I believe strongly in sucking it up and getting the job done. That's not to say I never complain or whine; I just believe that there is a time and a place for it, whereas it seems that most people I work with think that ALL time is THEIR time. I'm being paid (a paltry sum, yes, but it's still a paying job), so it's my duty to do my work.

I've had a lot of closing shifts lately. One thing the closing server has to do is assign side duties and make sure they're done. I hate assigning side duties because someone always has a problem with whichever one she got and whines. I also hate checking side duties and sections because, and call me crazy if you want, I feel strongly that we're all adults, and that it's demeaning to have someone go and check up on whether or not you accomplished your menial tasks correctly. This is unrealistic of me. And, I'm more than a little worried now that it has something to do with the fact that women are socialized to care if people like them.

Okay, I'm getting progressively sleepier, so I guess the final thing I have to rant about is those goddamn little bugs that swirl around in bunches, mating or socializing or whatever the hell it is they do. Why do they insist on congregating right in my jogging path? They fly right into my face and get mired in my sweat (ooh, gross), and I always end up with some live ones who've gotten stranded on my clothing when I get back inside. I've inhaled tons of them, too. It needs to get just a little colder so that they all DIE.

rant to come, but for now, this:

One of my internet addictions celebrates one of my girl-crushes. No, seriously, I'd go gay for Kate Winslet.

update

Well, I watched Studio 60 and ate too many almonds, and now I think I'm going to barf all over.

some day my prince will come

My idea of heaven is a cool fall evening, a good book, a cup of hot black coffee, and a bag of chocolate-covered almonds. And no interruptions. I've got the almonds right now.

I'd like to hold hearings into the two of you being stupid! *

So Rogers has decided that my computer is full of evil viruses, and is threatening to cut off our internet again should I risk exposing the world wide web to its diseases by reconnecting my wireless. Hence, my recent absence. But due to having an hour or so to kill and having perfected my history deleting technique, I'm writing this on my parents' computer. Howdy.

I have a multitude of things I could kvetch about, but I just can't find the energy to get worked up about any of it right now. I will point you to this Man vs. Clown entry, which, if it were possible, makes me love Peter Lynn even more. Calling pre-teens dirty liars is one of my areas of avid interest. Also, if you're male, check this out for some sympathy cringing. If you're female, go and laugh at Mr. Carlson's expense.

In recent Susan news, I've signed up for some ballroom dancing lessons with an old friend. Who thinks he's a pirate. I know the strangest people. Class starts in a week and a half; I'll keep you posted.

You know what depresses me most about my life right now? The fact that I have money to buy clothes, but no time or place to wear them. Stupid uniform. I, in fact, should probably go shopping soon to buy another pair of work pants and some less heinous work shoes. If I'm going to be living in them, they might as well be less clompy.

*Name that quotation! Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

fish and chips and vinegar, vinegar, vinegar...

Here's the thing: we have to make sure that the salt and pepper shakers in our sections are completely full before we leave work, right? But why? Do people get offended when they see that someone who sat at the table before them used a bunch of seasonings? Are they going to think, damn, this food must not be very good if anyone who has ever used this table before needed to spice 'er up a little? In addition, for soups and salads we are to bring a pepper grinder to the table and ask if the "guest" wants any. This, before whoever it is has even tasted her food. So most of the time it's not even a taste thing. Some people just like their pepper.

Really, my point is only that I have a degree, and it's demoralizing to have someone check to make sure I've filled up the shakers before I'm allowed to leave.

Oh, and as to the "guest" thing: I don't demand that actual guests in my home pay for things, and they, in return, don't treat me like crap. So let's just call them customers, shall we? At least I've gotten out of the habit of calling them cussies.

oh right, and...

If you desperately want to see any of my old posts, let me know, and I'll point you in the right direction. I may reinstate the old blog in its entirety; not quite sure yet.

hey there, hi there, ho there

So, here I am, cautiously ready to post again. Google seems to have lost the scent; that doesn't mean that I still haven't been made (I'm thinking of incorporating TV criminalese into my daily conversation to make myself more interesting. Or more dorky... whichever comes first), but what the hell, now is the time to live dangerously.

Speaking of living dangerously, it's something I've been thinking about lately. There's this post that my dearest Jowie wrote a while back, and the ridiculous things I did in Europe... and something quite foolish that I'm contemplating doing. You only live once, right? And all that dance like no one's watching crap... well, apparently it plays on my cynical soul more than I thought.

Sometimes I really wish I were the kind of helpless mook who falls desperately in love easily, does idiotic things, and has to pick up the pieces of herself after every time she broke. But I think that I have a different brand of self-respect--maybe I take myself too seriously. And it seems like a great deal of effort to care for someone that much.

One of my coworkers asked me a "what would you do if you were me?" question about her love life. My answer, unfortunately, was that I sincerely doubted that any relationship I was in would ever make it to a year, so I'd have been long gone before anything like her situation cropped up. I just can't picture the guy who could sustain my interest for longer than two months. I start to feel trapped pretty much the minute I realize it's heading in the general direction of coupledom. I'm sure there's an interesting psychological reason behind all that, but let's steer clear of delving TOO deeply into my twisted psyche right now, shall we?

Good gravy. Enough of this useless introspection. To lighten the mood, some hilarity from a man whose children I would seriously consider bearing:

a change

Alright, due to the unfortunate fact that you can find my blog by searching my last name (NOT COOL, DUDES), I have started messing around with it. Bear with me. I've moved the old junk off to a hopefully secure location (on a related note, I'm beginning to be very worried about Google and their world domination plot... I mean, they HAVE to have one), and I'm going to see if search engines can catch up with that. Incidentally, if anyone knows anything about this sort of dealie, help? See, my last name showed up in some comments that people posted, not in the blog itself. But hiding the comments hasn't seemed to do what I wanted it to. Google will still helpfully point you right at my blog anyway.

For those of you wondering why, precisely, this is such a big deal, I'll enlighten you a little. There are exactly seven people with my last name, two of whom are deceased. I am ridiculously easy to find. It's not like I'm super worried about some rando stalking me from across the planet; I'm just not wild about my parents, future employers (hell, past and present employers, too), and assorted other unsavoury types traipsing through my ramblings. And one hears unpleasant things about internet creeps--as scrappy as I am, putting my picture, approximate location, AND full name up on the 'net seems like tempting fate. Particularly as a female who values her independence.

If my last name weren't quite so distinctive, I'd have no problem with signing it to everything I write; even if what I wrote was more abstract, like political opinions or even observational humour, I'd 'fess up. But since I traffic in my daily doings and nefarious neuroticisms, it just seems too personal for comfort.

So here we are. Maybe I'll just shift my whole focus and write about other things entirely. Maybe Google's bloodhounds will get off my back and I'll be able to move the old blog back here without deleting some of my personal history from the last year and a bit. Maybe I'll just stop this madness entirely, and go back to the security of the pen and paper.

Thoughts?