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.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 27, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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 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.
Monday, October 23, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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 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?
Saturday, October 21, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 20, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
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?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
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.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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:
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:
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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.
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