what good curse can you throw?

I'm drunk and salty (read: sassy and profane) tonight, so bear with me. I pretty much told off a bunch o' jerks from my past, and I'm feeling good. What a week. It seemed like it was going to be good, but then it trainwrecked; it evened out, in a trainwrecky way (hard to explain; bear with me), and here I am, drunk and blogging and angry.

I was actually in a surprisingly good mood for much of this week; even now, I feel vaguely like I should be in a much worse mood. I fully planned on spending tonight on my couch, plucking my eyebrows in a desultory way and eating pizza. The best laid plans of mice and men.... I ended up at a pub in midtown Toronto, wearing a dress and being drunk and saying 'fuck' a lot. A LOT. And I only feel a third as bad as perhaps I should.

My hours at work have been cut for no apparent reason (other than the fact that we've hired some unnecessary new staff), and I'm no longer able to go to the Xmas party. Yesterday (Friday) I found out that the restaurant will NOT be closing early for the party (which is Sunday), which means, basically, that I can't go. How they can justify telling us poor Sunday closers that we'd be able to go, and then taking it away at the last minute is beyond me, but there you have it.

Today, Jo and I had a horrible shopping day. I usually spend my Saturdays sleeping, so just being awake and up and about was rough; spending it getting a nerve-wracking haircut and traipsing around the Eaton's Centre (on a weekend during the holiday season) made it that much rougher. I was letting Lindz and Jo get ready for their various social engagements at my place, since it was a halfway point, and then I was going to watch some shitty tv and call it a night. After some drama which I don't care to blog about, I ended up wearing the shortest dress I own and knocking back a few before ending up at a birthday party for a guy (who I'd drunkenly fooled around with a few years back), thrown by his girlfriend who I'm pretty sure doesn't like me. Amongst the invitees: a guy who'd fucked around hardcore with one of my best buds and refused to return her phone calls when all she wanted was her dvds back (and thinks he's hot shit because he bartends at fucking RED LOBSTER and gave ME attitude because he thinks he knows what's in a Tom Collins better than I do... ASSHOLE--did I mention he's been in the service industry for what, six months? Also, RED LOBSTER. ASSHOLE.), another guy who only talks to me and mine when he thinks he can get a favour (otherwise we're chopped liver), his girlfriend (who suits him to a tee... draw your own conclusions), and a bunch of other jerks who I did not care to see (and, luckily, didn't show up).

Did I mention that I wasn't invited? Anyway, I drank a whole lot and made fun of everyone, and it felt really good. Not a complete waste of an evening, but I really wish I hadn't been compelled to go. Now I'm drunk and belligerent, and I want to swear at someone else.

from me, to me

I went Xmas shopping today, and spent an exorbitant amount on yours truly. And that was actually throttled back; I resisted the temptation to buy the complete series of Arrested Development (I only bought season one), and did not buy the new body butter that has been put out by the perfume line I wear. Oh, but all that will be mine. Oh yes, they will be mine. Just not until after I manage to buy presents for my family. Maybe I'll see if I can get a gift certificate to Sephora from Mother--she told me to go shopping and buy stuff (for me AND my brother and sister, and if I see something for Father, that too), and then she'd give me the money for it, wrap it, and stick it under the tree.

I tend to buy clothes for my nearest relations; I'm the only one who loves clothes, but everybody's gotta wear 'em. You'd think my gay (ballroom dancing) brother could put together an outfit, but he is woefully unskilled in that department. I'll have to haul him to the mall sometime soon and overhaul his collection of jeans, because they're truly tragic.

One of my holiday traditions is the peppermint mocha from Starbucks, so naturally I treated myself to one after a long two hours of shopping. For myself. Maybe I can con my sister into going for the Festive Special at Swiss Chalet soon. These things are important.

it's the first snow of the year

Hello there! Now that everyone who once checked this blog has given up on me, I'm back. Hurray! I've been halfway to writing entries several times over the last several weeks, but I kept crapping out. My usual inexplicable mood swings are, as always, to blame.

I went to give blood today, and my arm hurts a lot. I'm not generally squeamish, but I get super squicked out by the feel of the needle poking in my vein. But I felt really important, because they actually called and asked me for blood (I have the rarest blood type, and that's just cool. Deal with it), and then a bunch of the nurses were all, ooooh, rare blood. I've been reading You Suck: A Love Story by Christopher Moore, and I was tempted to bring it along and read it ostentatiously while they drained my blood (it's about vampires), just to make some kind of bizarre comment that'd only be funny to me. But yesterday I happened to come across a book on Shakespeare by Bill Bryson, so that pre-empted any other reading. I just finished it, so it's back to sucking. See what I did there?

In work news, I've been excessively surly lately. I just cannot bring myself to be nice to people anymore. People are assholes, and it requires way too much energy and inclination to pretend that they're not. So, I've decided to stop serving once I get back from Europe. Or, at the very least, stop serving once I've paid off any debts I incur on my overseas adventures.

Okay, I'm sleep deprived and anemic, so I'm going to bed.

even you have to win sometimes, dear

News flash: It appears that working for seven days a week is not good for the psyche. And so I have decided to end my professional relationship with the Meat Palace.

Saturday, to put it bluntly, was not a good day. I was severely hungover and sleep-deprived, which certainly contributed to my decision. But it makes my job immeasurably easier to do when the kitchen isn't staffed by a cadre of fuckwits--in other words, if they can get a handle on what is out of stock BEFORE I ring the orders in so I DON'T have to go back to three tables (after getting quadruple sat) to look like a moron. I'm a waitress; people already tend to assume that I'm an idiot. I don't need my coworkers to help them with that.

Friday was an interesting night. I finally made it to the Madison. Unfortunately, my mood had swung over to "annoyed drunk" because while Rachel is lots of fun to party with, her taste in men is somewhat different than mine. So I got roped into going back to her apartment with four randoms after the bar closed, and then played drunk Scrabble whilst fending off the advances of one to two of them. I kicked ass in drunk Scrabble, for the record, even though the guys were cheating rampantly. It turned out that one of them was from my neighbourhood in Mississauga, and we had a disturbing number of acquaintances in common, including one of my brother's friends who'd had a crush on me in high school.

Anyway, since I'm quitting the MP, I'm looking forward to having a little spare time. I might even DATE. The world is my mollusk; the possibilities are endless (well, restricted to the two days off I'll have per week).

we will still need a song

On Wednesday, I had what I think can only be described as a migraine. I woke up early to go to my first pilates class, and was assaulted about the head with stabbing pains. I took some extra-strength migraine relief Advil (aka the Good Stuff), and the pain actually subsided during my pilates class (possibly because I was uniting my mind and body), and then returned in time for my journey to work (during which I snapped at a Bagel Stop employee). My lunch shift was absolutely brutal. I begged off my on call evening shift, went home, and crawled into bed. I woke up about five hours later, convinced I was going to die. I dragged myself to the bathroom and kitchen to retrieve my bottle of Advil and some water, double-dosed myself, and then, while waiting for the sweet, sweet drugs to kick in, pictured my funeral.

Drama queens like myself can get pretty into the funeral planning business. I was calculating how long it would take for my body to be discovered, and trying to decide whether or not Mother would remember an offhand remark of mine stating my preference for cremation. Then I decided that Dad would put his foot down and go for straight up burial--it failed to occur to me last night, in the throes of my dramatics, that my body would probably be in no state for an open casket, having been decomposing quietly in my apartment for a few days--and then I tried to figure out what outfit they'd have me in for the funeral. Not having my arty sensibilities, I decided that Mother would choose the little black dress that I'd bought for a semi-formal back in high school, although I'd prefer the sixties-inspired dress with the three-quarter sleeves.

No fantasy funeral is complete without a guest list! Family would come, of course. And Jo, Toni and Linds (or I'd haunt 'em GOOD). And I'm sure one of my family members would have the bright idea to send out the word via Facebook or MSN of my untimely demise. I'm sure not everyone on my lists would show up, but some of them would. At least a few coworkers, past and present, might feel some obligation to mourn. And maybe a professor or two, if they found out in time. So I think I'd have a respectably attended funeral, despite my general lack of impact on the world and society.

Anyway, by the time I'd gotten around to picking out some appropriate music (and then gotten distracted by remembering my favourite scenes from Love, Actually), I was feeling improved enough to relocate to the couch, and then soon to go on a chocolate run. The long and the short of it is, I'm still alive, but you're all invited to my funeral, whenever it may be.

don't you want me to have a clean uniform?

I try to have this rule about laundry in my building. We have two washers and two dryers; mine is not a large apartment building, but all it takes is for one other person to want to do their laundry on a Monday afternoon, and I could be screwed. So generally I'll only monopolize one set--that way, if someone else has a laundry emergency, they don't have to wait forty minutes for my stuff to finish. If a third person wants the machine, they are S.O.L. I still think it makes for good karma re: me, however.

But it does tend to take a long time, and sometimes I like to sleep in on Mondays--I always work at four, so I have a limited amount of time in which to do this laundry. My new thing was to wait fifteen or twenty minutes before snagging the second machine; I'm staggering my laundry for the convenience of others, if you will.

This was also spurred by a passive-aggressive laundry war I was having with an inarticulate Asian man who would use all the machines, and continue to put loads in after I pointedly left my basket next to a washer one day to claim my place in the machine line-up.

Today, however, I've decided to walk to work (because not only is it beautiful out, but also my path will skirt me through Yorkville, and since I'm finally living in the city during the Film Festival, I might as well try and see ONE celebrity), so I have even less time to spare for my cleaning endeavours. So I sez to myself, I sez, Susan, just stick both loads in at once. You haven't seen anyone down here for the last couple Mondays; just go for it.

So naturally, today when I went to put my loads in the dryers, a little old lady was sitting on the sofa in the laundry room, looking sad and staring at the washers mournfully. And then asked me questions about how everything worked.

EDITED TO ADD: I went down to retrieve my clean, dry clothes, and what had happened? One of the dryers had opened during the cycle (MYSTERIOUS, non?), and the timer had apparently kept going without actually doing anything. So my clothes were still damp. I had to put another buck fifty in! Enraged, I got into the shower and seethed*. And now I just went to get my stuff (leaving 27 minutes on the timer, bah), and the other dryer was making the most ridiculous thunking noises. I feel like the little old lady put some dead cats in there or something. Or both her loads into the one dryer. But really, it sounded like something that had been subjected to rigor mortis** was in there.

*slight exaggeration
**perhaps also a slight exaggeration

baked chips depress me profoundly

I had a dream last night that I had a severe head cold, and now I'm having trouble shaking off the feeling that I should be sniffling and coughing.

PM didn't want me for my on-call lunch shift today, and I gave away tonight's dinner shift last week (that is, if she remembers she took it... I'm a little nervous that I'm going to get a phone call at four fifteen asking irately why I'm not there). So I randomly have a day off. I'm catching up on the laundry I didn't do on Monday and then hanging out with my sister, who is newly moved to Scarborough (which, coincidentally, is why I didn't have time to do my laundry on Monday).

Scarborough is a hole. I know this for the following reasons: 1) empirical observation, and 2) Jo told me so. I know that Jo is often a lying liarton from Liarville, but in this case she is nothing but right. It reminds me of the sketchiest parts of Mississauga. Also, would it KILL Toronto to label things a little better? I got lost, like, twice trying to get to her piss pad by transit. Interesting trivia re: me, which may or may not totally undermine my beefs about getting lost: I have East vs West dyslexia or something. I constantly confuse them. I have to face North and then picture a map of Canada and remember that West is off to the left.

Em's moving day was not a good day for the family. On top of my transit woes, we were unable to get her bookcase and sofa in (her place is a basement pad in an older house), and then there was a bizarre odyssey for dim sum (all five of us were crammed into the Corolla, doing slow drive-bys of Asian plazas) that ended in us eating at Tim Horton's, barely speaking.

And, inevitably, I had gone out drinking with some coworkers the night before, so I was running on three and a half hours of sleep and a quietly festering hangover. Servers tend to be fairly insane drinkers. I had to close that night, so clearly I had to catch up by having some tequila and chugging a beer. On a related note, we were talking about server nightmares at work yesterday--I'm sure all jobs have similar difficulties, but I write what I know--which are, trust me, horrendous. I once dreamt that I was having a heated argument with a customer and I got so worked up that I sat bolt upright in bed, and was unable to get back to sleep for two hours. Another time I woke up, convinced I'd forgotten to punch in someone's appetizer, and had to talk myself down. When I used to bartend, I'd hear the printer spewing out drink orders when I closed my eyes.

My Labour Day weekend was full of labour, but I have today and Saturday off, so September is getting off to an all right start, I guess.

worst date song... or BEST?

Flight of the Conchords: "If You're Into It"

I had to look for a vein... REAL HARD

The bruise on my arm has turned bright purple, prompting concerned questions. I think some people just suspect that I'm a closet heroin addict. The unfortunate fact is that having given blood is much less interesting. I was going to try and convince my tables that I needed bigger tips to fund my next fix, but since the general manager hates me this week for some reason, I decided against it. Is it MY fault she has no sense of humour?

GM: I make my own garlic bread. Just a little olive oil, minced garlic, and cracked pepper.

ME: And bread, right?

GM: Yes, otherwise it's.... I don't like you anymore.

She also got mad when Sarah and I staged a chase scene around the restaurant (which was hardly MY fault, because SHE was chasing ME), and took umbrage when I told Dave (one of the kitchen managers) he should shut the hell up. She just doesn't get the idea of banter. It sure does put a damper on my work day.

Speaking of work, apparently someone has a crush on me. Here is proof positive that I think too much: if I ask one of two girls I work with, they'll tell me who it is (according to the source who told me that said crush exists). HOWEVER, then the ball will be in my court, provided I don't have anything against whoever it is. And if I DO have something against this person, or even if I'm merely ambivalent, or just not interested enough to risk a workplace romance, there will be hurt feelings because I don't reciprocate, and he'll find out that I know. I HATE having the ball in my court. You get that ball and keep it! I'm much too indecisive to have it. Also, I just don't know if I have the energy for a workplace fling. The last one trainwrecked. Also, I'm not that close with either of the two girls who know about it. C'est un tragedie.

I have now successfully broken most of the glasses I bought from Ikea for my apartment. I bought them partially to spite my mother (is it bad that several of the things I bought for this place were bought for that reason?). I think I've managed to break all of them by dropping them in the sink, stone cold sober. Luckily, the deliciousness of POM Tea has enabled me to stock up on glassware of approximately the same size.

PS: I now believe the knife was used for pizza, in case you were concerned for my safety.

CRAB!!

I confess to being slightly unnerved today. I decided that I should probably get around to doing some dishes--all I really use these days are water glasses and coffee mugs, and the occasional bowl and spoon for cereal--so I put on my coffee maker and got to it. At the bottom of my sink was my good knife. It's one of the knives that comes with its own sharpener dealy. When did I take it out? I can't for the life of me remember, or even fathom what I might have used it for.

Here are my hypotheses:

1. I'm blacking out so hard from drinking binges that I don't even remember drinking at all, and made a meal while intoxicated
2. a murderer broke in, found a weapon, and got bored/lazy and left
3. I'm being sent a really ambiguous message by my superintendent
4. I left my dishes so long that they've gained sentience, and are sloooowly gearing up to take over
5. some asshole jerk is using my kitchen while I'm out, and can't even be bothered to do ALL his dishes... jerk

This is really bugging me now. The only other people who've been in here recently are Jo and my family. And I could have sworn that none of them were rummaging through my kitchen drawers. Subtle threats ARE just my sister's style, however.

Speaking of Em, she sent me the following. The second part is my favourite, but all instances of slow-motion man-hugging make me pretty happy.

remember, this doesn't mean that I like you

I kind of hate Flixster. Randoms keep adding me as friends, which isn't the WORST thing ever, except for the fact that most of them send me messages like this: "aw, baby girl, y u cryin? ill make u smile!" My profile picture there is the same one I have here, in case that made no sense to you. It didn't to me, either, until I took a minute to look at my profile again.

Also, many of these people have LOUSY taste in movies.

But still, I could just ignore all of this, except that I keep accidentally approving these friend requests. There doesn't seem to be a "Pointedly Ignore Friend Request" button, and so, if I'm bidden to come and check out the stupid friend messages I get, I've twice now absentmindedly tried to get to another page, and, in so doing, inadvertently aligned myself with the likes of a woman whose profile is in ALL CAPS (so she's effectively shouting about her love for terrible movies), and a guy who has set up a thing on his profile that plays a tinny (and also BAD) pop song over scenes from movies, or SOMETHING like that (because I've never had the patience to watch it, once I figured out what was aurally interrupting my regularly scheduled Hellogoodbye ingestion).

Whew. Anyway, I just spent a few minutes weeding through and removing all of these randoms from my friend list. I mainly like Flixster for the Facebook application--ACTUAL Flixster I find annoying. I've actually had an account on there for a long time, even though I barely used it from the time I signed up until it got itself attached to FB. This guy I used to have a thing with had sent me one of those "sign up and compare movie tastes!" bullshit emails, and at the time, I was tickled pink that he was thinking of me. Being older and wiser, of course, I've now realized that he probably sent it to everyone on his contact list.

Tomorrow, I've got a day off. My last day off was August 1, and I had a staff meeting that day, so it wasn't even a real one. Granted, there have been a few days in there in which I worked for less than four hours, but just knowing that you have to go to work colours your entire day. Anyway, I mention it because I'm going to spend all day at the Ex, eating BeaverTails and goofing off. Delicious!

is this it?

I had the following conversation with a fellow Susan today (yes, another person named Susan, and not actually myself--I'm not denying the fact that I talk to myself, I'm just saying that it's not what I was doing THIS time):


ME: I'm experiencing general dissatisfaction with the state of my life.


SUSAN: Ah. My feet hurt.


ME: That doesn't really compare to my existential angst.


Today I looked at the container I carry my extra-strength migraine relief Advil around in, and realized it's a little case that I got at the university fair waaaay back in my last year of high school. It advertises for monster.ca. I keep my work float in a hastily modified cloth cd case from the Alumni Association at the UofG. And here is a typical conversation I've had several times, with co-workers and customers:


X: So, are you still in school?


ME: Oh, no. I'm done. I graduated.


X: Oh? From... university?


ME: Yep. (pause) I... I have a degree in drama.


X: OHHHHhhhhh. Oh. Ahhh.


And the world again makes sense. Why ELSE would a BAH like myself be serving beer in a kilt? Drama. Even art history majors find something else to do. Am I going to suffer under the belief that I've wasted my life EVERY September?

But that's only part of it. I have to call my grandmother to thank her for a scarf she's knitted me. Go ahead, consider me an ungrateful wretch, but I'm dreading this call. Seeing as I've not only graduated, but have also reached a marriageable age, it is now my job to provide her with bouncing baby great-grandchildren. We've jumped right from pressing questions about boyfriends to the spawning stage.

Also, Grandpa likes to ask when I'm going to get a real job. It's bad enough when I ask myself that question; trying to justify your life to a man who was sent to a wartime work camp, moved across the world, and slaved away in a GM factory to support a family of five, among other things, is a whole level of worse.

"The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied."*

I performed my civic and moral duty today and gave blood. I haven't in a long time; I feel somewhat embarrassed by that, actually. I'm healthy, after all, and I'm not really DOING anything with all that blood. Might as well let someone who needs it have it. The process makes me uncomfortable, but that's not really an excuse when people need transfusions and etcetera. Now my arm's a gigantic owie, and I'm having phantom needle sensations. However, awash in the glow of having done some good, I rewarded myself with a couple books and some expensive coffee.

This morning I opened at PM; as we all know, mornings have never been my forte. I've decided that I hate patios, patio furniture, security measures for patio furniture, people who insist on sitting on patios, pigeons, trees with tree mange, and fickle weather gods. None of this is NEW, exactly--it just comes up more forcibly when I have to deal with the above before noon. I think I'll try and get out of the waitressing biz before next summer rolls around, just to avoid having to deal with asshole patios. However, my one consolation is doing up the chalkboard with our specials: "THRILL to our BUTTERNUT SQUASH PUREE! Release your inner cowboy with our BULL'S EYE PRIME RIB SANDWICH! Got a VITAMIN WING DEFICIENCY?" This is the small joy my life affords; being overly enthusiastic about foods that very few people actually want, in order to subtly underline my dissatisfaction with the course of my existence. Most people don't get it.

I'm in a rut, and I know it. I'm going to sign up for pilates next week, because I have the misguided conviction that rock-hard abs will make my life materially better. I'm also leaning towards quitting the Meat Palace, just to simplify my work life. But as I fought with patio furniture this morning, I had the awful conviction that it was emblematic of my entire existence: ineffectual railing against an uncaring world, leading directly to death by tetanus poisoning. Alright, perhaps not the last bit. Or perhaps yes... METAPHORICALLY.

*Go on, name the quote.

it sounds like a sexy hamburger

Went and saw Superbad Friday night and laughed my ass off. Definitely not a movie I'd like to see with my parents (one day I'll see the 40 Year Old Virgin again, and properly enjoy it); it was filthy in the way that only immature boys can be. But it was also awfully sweet. The two friends are facing separation in a few months, and nothing will ever be the same, and they both realize that. It's guy love, between two guys. Plus, Michael Cera is so delightfully awkward--he can somehow convey acute discomfort by just standing there, and it's honestly hilarious and endearing.

It's true that there's very little screen time spared for the girls, but I liked that there seemed to be some kind of hidden layer to them. Maybe I'm just projecting, but since the boys only got imperfect glimpses of that whole other world that is teenage femaleness, it seemed pretty clear that there was more at work behind the scenes than the audience got to see. And also, that the boys just didn't get it. On a somewhat related note, my favourite bit in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix was when Hermione explained why Cho was crying when Harry kissed her and Ron was all, no one person can be feeling all that at once without exploding! Right there, one of the (admittedly cliched) differences between the sexes. We ladies are complicated creatures, and no one understands us, not even ourselves.

Over at Pajiba, there's some kind of crazy shitstorm going on about the politics of Superbad. I mention it not only because Dan Carlson is really sorry for inadvertently starting it, but also because I've been thinking quite a bit about the personal and the political. I thank whatever powers that be that there are women a lot smarter than me who did all the theoretical thinking behind feminism (I'm referring to it as a philosophy; it's a great thing that someone said, hey, just cuz I have a vagina, I'm not allowed to vote? WTF?, but to sit down and hammer out papers on the power imbalances inherent in the very language we use, the dynamics in society that implicitly favour males, etc etc etc... well, damn, I'm just grateful to have enough brainpower to be able to mostly follow along). It does, however, become INCREDIBLY exhausting to safeguard feminine equality, just because there is so much to fight. (There's a manager at the Meat Palace who consistently gave the guys (one of whom was much slighter than me) the dirty, muscle-y jobs during our opening week--for all I know he still does; I rarely work with him given my limited schedule--and it amused me slightly while also ruffling my feathers. Then I said to myself, Susan, do you WANT to mop the bathrooms out? Haul around the dusty barbeque? No? Then shut up.)

Anyway, what I'm saying is that while I fully understand and support the rationale behind confronting the casual oppressions that the patriarchy unthinkingly imposes, I can't really envision an end point to it. And that exhausts me. So does the fact that it's really hard to convince people of things that they don't want to believe or understand, no matter how reasonable your arguments are. You pretty much have to get them while they're young. I like to think that if I ever have kids, I'll be able to raise them to treat everyone with respect, and avoid the gendered pigeon holes that society still propagates--and that enough feminists (male or female) manage to do so that eventually it'll snowball, and the world will slowly become a better place. I'm not really planning on having kids, unfortunately for future generations (that's right. You just WISH you could get a hold of these genes!), but theoretically speaking, that's the plan. There are an alarming number of knuckleheads out there who just don't and won't get it; I have defended my views on feminism to guys who have pretty much just scratched their heads and said, "Why are you even bothering about this? You're pretty; you don't need to worry about it."

Now I'm all riled up again. Want to be depressed? Go read this. The most fucked up part is in the fifth to last paragraph. But they do say they're hopeful; maybe instead of being exhausted, I can try that too.

things I love inordinately

• the ads for the new pomegranate and tangerine Fruitopia (EVEN THOUGH I have yet to find a place to purchase and consume said beverage)
• the trailer for Mr Bean's Holiday (I seriously crack up every time I see him say "Gracias.")
• the weather lately
• Cantonese chow-mein (sans crevettes) from Not Just Noodles
• "Someday" by the Strokes

via feministing.com

WORD.

Sing it, sister.

for Jowie and Toni, who hate pants

I took like, three showers yesterday

I'm pretty much sick of this heat wave. How about all of you?

It's a favourite Canadian pastime to complain about the weather (unless you live on the West coast, where apparently everything is fabulous all the time... bastards). I've got two fans on, full-blast, but really it's not the heat in my apartment that's getting me. It's the fact that I have to work on patios that gets my goat (and makes me smell like one). This one lady started going on about how EVERYONE was complaining that it was SO HOT, but really, if you just sit in one place, having a drink, it was actually very pleasant. THANKS A LOT, LADY. Did you ever think about the girl in the black t-shirt, faux-wool kilt, and black knee socks who's bringing you and the other hordes of patio-worshippers their drinks?

Actually, I'm somewhat grateful for the kilt. In this weather, I will take a bit of a breeze around my nether regions if I can get it. There is, however, nothing quite like the sweet relief of taking off a pair of knee socks after an eight hour shift.

A year ago, I was in France. I miss France. Linds has demanded that I come up with a good acronym for my Europe savings (something at least as good as the SHIT fund--Susan: Home In Toronto), so I'm taking any suggestions you people have.

In other news, I never told you guys about the bender of a weekend I had. It's a long story, and I'm very hot right now, so I'll just tell you that I ill-advisedly gave some guy my number, and I may be roped into seeing him at some point soon. He seems nice enough; I just always feel leery about guys I meet at clubs (which is why I don't usually give out my number) because I so rarely go to them. It seems like being at one automatically gives people a certain impression of you, just by association. And, similarly, I don't know if I like the kind of guys who frequent them.

I do wish I had a boyfriend who has air-conditioning, though.

newly in love with The Strokes, for those of you keeping track of my music choices

I nearly had a throw-down with an older Irish man at work today. I can't do it justice by writing it out; suffice it to say, he managed to be the most maddening customer in recent memory. And also that he narrowly escaped death at my hands, due only to my superior self-control.

I often develop automatic dislikes towards customers; many's the time I have envisioned stabbing someone at a table with my pen and watching them bleed to death. (What, too far?) Usually while I'm standing holding a heavy tray while the cussie debates between menu items, but refuses to admit to needing more time.

Other than work-related rage, I had an astonishingly productive day. The plumbers came by to fix my sink very early, but instead of going back to bed, I did some laundry, tidied my apartment, and walked to the pool for some lengths. I am sorely out of swimming shape. I even walked back. Then I ate, read some Harry Potter, showered, and went to work. On the way back, I got a sandwich, and bought a MetroPass (my first! I decided that since I'm working seven days a week, it's finally worth it). Now that I'm sitting after my eight hour shift, my muscles have chosen to start complaining about all this undue effort. I can barely walk now, and so getting ready for bed seems like an insurmountable task. Plus, I have all this laundry lying on my bed.

But tomorrow, I have much to do. I have to buy a new planner, to keep track of all my wheelings and dealings. I was considering giving blood and jogging, but the exercise depends on how much pain I'm in tomorrow, and the giving blood on when I can drag myself out of bed. I also have a staff meeting at the Meat Palace--Chef is coming in to explain the new menu to us, and then I'm on call at PM. The Meat Palace is actually getting really interesting--every time something goes wrong at PM, I feel like storming out, because the MP would be thrilled to have me full time. And vice versa, but yesterday at the MP I served an important food critic, and things went incredibly well.

I don't adhere to the tapeworm theory

Not yesterday, but last Monday, I had an odd duck come in to the Meat Palace (as I affectionately call it). He sits down, and just seems kinda... off. I like to think I can peg the weirdos at this stage in my serving career, and the alarm was dinging. So I offer him a menu and he's all, nope, I know what I want--now, bear in mind that this is the beginning of our third week of operation. He says, "I'll have a whole chicken, and a full rack of beef ribs," at which this point I think, surely he's ordering take out, but instead I say, "Okay, well, you get to pick two sides with each of those entrees." He doesn't have to think long. "Well, I like the beans... make it three orders of beans and... one of dirty rice. No, wait... one of potato salad, and two of beans. And water to drink." So I say, probingly, "Is this for take out?" (subtle, I know). Nope, sez he.


Chez Meat Palace, we have decorative buckets with three different kinds of tobasco in them which are meant for your bone-related debris as you eat. We didn't have enough big ones for each table, so now we also have some small ones. The man happened to be sitting at the counter, and the nearest bucket was small. I push it over to him when I deliver the food, and he says, "Usually you guys give me one of the bigger ones." I'm thinking, how often does this man come here and eat a zoo? He wasn't that much bigger than me.


So then he tucks in, and I switched his bucket out for a bigger one. After the buckets are half full, we're supposed to empty them. When I did that, he paused and asked me my name... now, here's the creepy part. I give him my server smile and say "Oh, it's Susan." And he says, "Eating is a very intimate act for me.... I like to know the names of the people I'm sharing it with." And he ate every damn thing. There I was, unwittingly involved in his weird sexual eating game!



I'm attempting some length swimming today. I haven't done it in a loooong time, so I am going to be in considerable pain tomorrow.

yes, I CAN rhyme off all eighteen

It's the days when I'm hungover at work that all the crazies I can't deal with show up. This one man got oddly worked up when I asked him what he'd like to drink; he took about ten minutes to peruse our drink menu--this after his friend had decided on, ordered, and been brought a pint of Keith's. The second time I asked him, he actually looked like he might burst into tears about it. So I avoided him until he started staring at me impatiently as I moved around the patio. He ordered a pint of Budweiser. I emphasize that because we have eighteen different beers on tap. Irish beers, U.K. beers, Belgian beers, and many delicious premium domestics. The only worse thing he could have ordered was Bud Lite. Then, we had the following conversation.

MAN: (pointing at the menu) This caesar salad... what kind of dressing does it have?
ME: Uhh... caesar?
MAN: Yes, that one.
ME: Well, it's a caesar salad. It has caesar dressing.
MAN: (angrily) Is it creamy?
(pause)
ME: Have you had a caesar salad before?
MAN: (very annoyed) YES.
(pause, as I decide what expression to put on my face)
ME: Yes. It's creamy.
MAN: (flipping menu pages huffily) Hmph. Then I'll have a roast beef sandwich!
ME: (still trying to make sense of the conversation) Would you like a salad instead of the fries?
MAN: No!

Maybe I'm the crazy one, and this man is used to restaurants with vinaigrette caesar salads. But then there was the lady who complained because she'd gotten her hand caught in the soap dispenser in the ladies'. And several elderly couples who got unreasonably angry when I asked if they wanted to order some food. Then there was an older couple that parked themselves on the same side of the table, facing the length of the patio. I'm all for people-watching, but you'll get a more interesting view if you look out at the sidewalk, rather than stare down all the other people who are eating. At one point, the other server working came up to me and said, "Okay, it's your turn for the next table, but my turn for the next bunch of crazies, so let's figure out how we want to do this."

For some reason, I had a bunch of people lingering on the patio way past last call--I actually had to kick three tables out.

Also, in my continuing series of tips for not annoying your server, I'd like to mention that couples who are all over each other in restaurants are gross. Get a goddamn room. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't my JOB to make sure you don't need another drink; finding an opportunity to ask while you're necking so that I can get in a subtle hint for you to finish up and leave is pretty uncomfortable for yours truly. So, clearly, I'm going to do my best to make it uncomfortable for YOU.

In completely different news, I spent all my Shopper's Optimum points today. Retail therapy is even better when you're not actually spending real money!

Alright, I've been TRYING to take pictures for you assholes, but I'm facing some technical difficulties. My camera hates batteries, or something, and now my computer is having some kind of feud with the memory card from the camera. So this blurry shot, in which part of the hair is covered, is all you get. Also, check out my linebacker shoulders. HAWT.

I was going for the messy-chic look, and managed to get some random flips. When he styled it, it was all straight, with the ends curled in to my head, so it looked much more bob-like. I'm still figuring out what to do with it; this flippy look is going to get old for me fast. But it IS really easy. I just point a blow-dryer at it and muss it up with my other hand, and ta-DAH!

Hey, my delete key isn't working! Compy, why are you hating today? You've been getting so much rest lately! Mommy still loves you, even now that she's remarried to a coffee maker! And she's working so much lately so that she can afford to give you access to the internet and such. Now, be a good computer and let me use the delete key. You're really cramping my style. Oh, grand. It just started working in time for me to accidentally delete the picture and have to re-load it. FUNNY. You're GROUNDED.

you told me about nowhere, well, it sounds like a place I'd like to go

Mr. Coffee has moved in! My one and only love is now (temporarily) ensconced on my kitchen counter. I'm not sure where I'm going to settle it; my place is sadly low on power outlets. I'm going to wake up tomorrow to delicious fresh coffee.

And, in other news... I done cut all ma hairs off.

No, really. I got a haircut, and it's not even chin-length! I feel like I'm going to freak out about it tomorrow, but right now I'm pretty alright. It's a little bit mod-sixties bob-ish, a little twenties flapper-esque, but with a bit of modern shag to it. We'll know more when I style it myself. I haven't had my hair this short in a very long time; the last time I had it anywhere off my shoulders, it was in my first year of university, and it was right around my chin.

I really expected to freak out MORE, but there were no tears. It all happened very fast once I sat down in the chair. I'll keep you posted on my GLOFO as relates to my hair.

My current music obsession is Dashboard by Modest Mouse. Love the lyrics, and I'm groooovin' away to it.

it's the dirtiest clean I know

Honestly, if Toni hadn't pointed out that my desk chair was ludicrously high, I wouldn't have noticed. I just fixed it; it's a poorly thought-out thread screw design, so apparently I have been inadvertently raising it every time I spun around dramatically to go to the kitchen and fix myself some toast. Which, I might add, I have no intention of stopping; now I'll merely have to remember to lower it periodically.

I was not a happy camper this morning--I KNEW I was going to have to go in to work (my lunch shift was "on-call," but in the month I've worked at PM's, I've never NOT been called in), but I still harboured hope. Of course, I was, so I manned up and tried to keep all my whining internal. However, once I got there, I discovered that not only was I saddled with the shittiest of all sections, but the manager who told me to come in had previously stated his intention not to use any of the on-calls, but changed his mind. So if the bartender had picked up the phone before he'd gotten to it, I could have gone back to bed.

My bank account is still looking lean, so technically any money is good money right now; it's just that with such a craptacular section, I made a paltry amount--the amount, in fact, that I would have PAID for a few more hours of sleep. I've been having trouble falling asleep lately, so the extra zeds in the AM would have evened me out a little. And also helped me not make a few silly mistakes at work today. AND, most importantly, helped my overall mood. I'm no prima donna at work; hell, I'm a waitress. I wouldn't be in the service industry if I had an allergic reaction to taking shit or getting my hands dirty. But really, now--they did NOT need me. Damn, I'm still annoyed. At least I didn't have any total bastard cussies today.

By the by, the tiny, pretty girl I was complaining about? One of my male coworkers said the most hilarious thing about her today. I paraphrase: "When I met her, an alarm bell went off. I said to myself, don't hit on her. I like my bunny rabbit. I don't want it to end up in a pot on my stove." How I laughed and laughed. I wonder if it's easier to peg (relationship prospect-wise) men or women as Do Not Approaches. Seeing as I didn't predict the "dick-in-the-box" situation, maybe I'm not the best judge. But then, fairly often, the crazies only come out after an emotional attachment has been formed. Or, when a guy decides that putting his junk in a box is the next logical step. I've had a case of the crazies myself--I like to think it wasn't that high on the scale of nutties, and was somewhat justifiable, but isn't that what they ALL say?

I crave drama in relationships, but I'm also too sane to put up with certain things. But I'm pretty certain that the main problem with me is my suffocation threshold.

My iTunes problem is on-going, for those of you keeping track. I've discovered the function on it that reccomends songs based on your previous purchases, and damn if it hasn't introduced me to some fabulous stuff. I just bought an entire album by the Plain White T's, and my favourite song for the past week has been "My Moon, My Man" by Feist.

the theatre and a rant explaining in a small part why servers are bitter, bitter creatures

Treated myself to two Fringe shows tonight. Once I heard about it, I was desperate to see An Inconvenient Musical--I LOVED SARSical! last year, and this one is by the same guys. Tonight was the only possible night for me to see it, and I had to boot it hardcore out of work to make it. And it was so worth it. I love the guy who plays Al Gore--he was David Mirvish in SARSical!, and he just has this twinkle in his eyes when he's delivering these completely ridiculous monologues and songs with an otherwise straight face. And I literally could not breathe at one point during David Suzuki's scene. The only bad thing about it was that I was squished in between an elderly lady who did not seem to take kindly to me, for whatever reason, and a man who actually fell asleep on me several times. He was visually impaired, but he must have had some other kind of disability as well. He'd wake up when the songs got loud, and roar with laughter, and then sloooowly droop off until he was nearly leaning on me, and then the cycle would repeat. The first time, I thought he'd quietly expired next to me, and I eyeballed him narrowly to make sure he was still breathing.

The second one was The Africans, which I liked, but think could have been snappier. But that could be a leftover impression from going straight from An Inconvenient Musical, which could be accurately described as frenetic.

I've been working a lot over the last couple of days--not precisely surprising, of course. I just want to make a public statement that anyone who drinks Corona out of a glass is automatically a wang. I'm sorry. It's just the way it is. The whole Corona BRAND involves sticking the damn lime in the bottle and then drinking from it. Everyone who has EVER asked me for a glass with their Corona turns out to be a raging asshole. And they always act extremely offended that I didn't bring one automatically. "EXCUSE me, but I'd like a GLASS with my beer?"

Hey, I am all for pouring a beer in a glass if you're pro-bottle (which I am, although I've gotten much better about draught in the past few years... it stemmed from bartending school, when you learn that bottles are pasteurized, and kegs are not) and you want to look slightly classier. There is, however, nothing classy about Corona, nor will there ever be. Personally, I hate the taste, but more than that, it has branded itself as the beer you drink while lounging on the beach. It's not a beer for connoisseurs; if you're a Corona drinker, you're not impressing anyone with your knowledge of hops or barley--you just drink a shitty import marketed to frat boys. I JUDGE people who drink Corona. So just shove the damn lime in, and drink it from the bottle, lady.

Incidentally, I also judge people who drink Blue and Coors Light. I'm sure they judge me for drinking Canadian, but I'm okay with that. I am branching out, however--I already loved Guinness before starting work at the pub, but since we have seventeen beers on tap, I'm trying to get to know my beers a little better.

One of my coworkers and I were agreeing that food brings out the worst in people. Until you've worked for awhile as a server, you have no idea how douchey people can be. My rants aside, I generally try to be as understanding as possible--I'm human, and I've had horrible days that I've unfortunately taken out on innocent bystanders, so I know how it is--but sometimes it's just incredible. There was this one woman, whose children were actually very polite and sweet, who was inexplicably rude to me, and GLARED every time I came up to the table. And I was the one who sat them (so I KNOW it didn't take long for a server to get to them, because that, again, was ME), dug up a kiddie menu and crayons, and made sure they had refills and extra sauces, and what-have-you. She tipped me less than ten percent, and I can't think of a single thing that went wrong with their table.

I can understand being pissed if you can clearly see your server standing around and chatting with coworkers, and ignoring you completely, and basically not doing any work, but just because you can't SEE me, that doesn't mean I'm not busy. If I walk onto the patio with a full tray, and stop at five different tables before I get to you, wait politely while you finish your conversation (as you ostentatiously ignore me) to ask if you would like a refill, and then walk back inside the restaurant with a full armload of dirty plates, it may, MAY, take me more than thirty seconds to come back with your diet pepsi, no ice, two limes. So please stop sucking at the dregs of your drink with your patented bitch face.

The funny thing is, it's often days when you get completely swamped, and are just a TERRIBLE server, due to insane volume, that you get good tips. I was getting twenty percent consistently on Tuesday at lunch, even though I was spending very little time with each table. Other days, you slave away for everyone's individual comfort, and you make shit. Management always claims that if you provide service that SIZZLES, you'll make better money, but I tend to think that's not entirely true. Most people have a preconceived notion of how they're going to tip; I usually give slightly over twenty, because I have been hardened in the trenches, but it's very rare to find someone who will say to themselves, "Gee whiz, that was amazing service! I'm going to tip more than I usually would!" More often, people will rationalize docking tips ("My food took longer than I thought it would," or "She didn't offer me more water."), or just tip their standard amount, but thank you profusely on the way out. When those people are the ones who think ten percent is good, but say that they loved everything about you, you start to wonder why you even bother.

So, insider info here: the way to up your tip is to talk people into buying more. You have to feel people out--if they're only looking to spend a certain amount, you're ripping yourself off by talking them into spending the extra few bucks on gravy and coffee and etc, so don't do it for teens on their dates--but generally, if you upsell, your percentage will be higher. So, for those of you who are on the other side of the transaction, that's why we're pushing the desserts and the add-ons, and trying to make you drink more. I don't actually believe that you MUST have this cheesecake before you die to have lived a full life. I just want the extra couple of bucks on your tab.

these apples are delicious... can all this food be free?

So, the restaurant that Toni has aptly described as the "Mickiest of Mickey Mouse operations" has finally opened its doors. I have to say, the food is extremely delicious. There were a few points tonight that I pretty much decided to take off and accept my losses, but I stuck it out. AND, I served Steven Page beer! And got a polite laugh out of him! AND didn't fall all over myself gushing. It was fabulous. I'm probably going to have to keep this job, just for the minor celebs. Paul Venoit was in on Sunday (make-up artist on cycle one of CNTM). I couldn't place him, though, and it wasn't until after he'd left that someone mentioned who he was.

I also befriended a local playwright who's working on a play about Conrad Black and Barbara Amiel. So far, the crowd at this place is much more interesting than the downtown one. I really enjoy the Annex. Hopefully, I'll enjoy working there. I'm way ahead of everyone when it comes to the computers, because both restaurants are using the same software, so that's good. I'm getting along reasonably well with my coworkers so far; there's only one I don't really like. I suspect her of being somewhat dim-witted, but not affably so. Also, there are some politics to navigate--some people were friends previous to working there, and a few of the servers are close friends of the managers, so until I have all the dynamics worked out, it's going to be a matter of feeling out every situation as it goes. Furthermore, I have moderate to severe doubts about some of their methods, but I'm going to sit back and shut up until they see the problems on their own, or I am proved wrong.

It is unspeakably good to be employed after those long dry months. Now I just have to re-beef up my bank account, and I can direct my attention back to my existential qualms.

"I sat at my desk all day, with a rifle that shoots potatoes at 60 pounds per square inch. Can you imagine if I was deranged?"

There's this girl at work I really don't like. There's one I actively despise, but this one I just... don't like. She's newer than I am, and you can tell, you can just TELL, that she is one of those girls that is used to getting things because she's tiny and pretty. I have to turn off part of my brain to talk to her; she's vapid in that special way that will interrupt a conversation to talk about this guy who is really into her, but hasn't called her back, but he's super sweet, and he serenaded her at karaoke the other night, and you know, she just doesn't get karaoke, but she sees how it could be really fun for someone, but she could never get up there and sing, because that would be SO embarrassing.

But really what I don't like about her is the fact that I have to do extra work because she's just used to people doing work around and for her. She'll just leave basic things undone and wander off because it doesn't occur to her that it is, in fact, her job to do them.

Other than that, work's going alright. I think I hit upon one of the main reasons why I'm able to maintain a fairly perky demeanour at this particular place. I feel like I'm in costume, and it's a ridiculous costume, and therefore I put some effort into staying in character. I have been accepted by the rest of the staff--they've decided I'm clearly more insane than they are, and I think they respect that.

The other restaurant is actually opening tomorrow, so life should get pretty busy. This is excellent news, because I'm thinking of many things I want to spend money on, so, you know, I'd like to have some.

Also, I straight up LOVE The Office. I listened to one of the commentary tracks, and they sound like they have the most amazing time filming it. The only job I really loved was the costume shop. I was cleaning and organizing, yes, but cleaning and organizing interesting things. The shifts I spent in the hat room were fabulous. It's possible I'm more than averagely crazy.

" This is an environment of welcoming, and you should just get the hell outta here."

I spent a sizeable portion of the day at the local walk-in clinic, sporting the latest in fashionable face gear. You just look MORE infectious while wearing a disposable mask, you know? I liked the doctor I eventually saw, though. He said I could infect whomever I pleased once I left the building. I like a GP with a sense of humour.

The medical interlude did allow me to finish reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I can't say it's going on my top ten list, but I don't regret having read it. Maybe I'll relate to it more when I'm older, and I have a few failed romances and huge life disappointments under my belt.

I bought seasons one and two of The Office as a get well present to me. I'm madly in love with John Krasinski, thanks in no small part to this:



So obviously the thing to do is feed my obsession.

I'm hoping to go back to work tomorrow. I need money, now that I've decided to save up for Europe, because I clearly need to pay off Visa and make rent every month on top of all that.

sick, but dreaming

How I consistently manage to come down with colds in July is a mystery to me. This particular one, however, I think I'll blame on Jo. Toni's got it too; Jo is the typhoid Mary of our times.

I started feeling poorly on Sunday, but that didn't stop me from deciding at the last minute to abscond to Guelph with Jo and Lindz. I got spectacularly drunk (so much so that I got turned away from a bar), and got up to my usual harrassing-passers-by antics. Monday saw me feeling progressively worse (but surprisingly not very hungover)--I was unable to enjoy the sunshine at High Park, and ended up in bed by eight thirty. This morning I roused myself enough to call in sick to work, and managed to roll out of bed by two in the afternoon to ingest some toast.

I'm hoping that after a good night's sleep tonight, I'll be right as rain, or at least a closer approximation to it. Jo's cold seems to be lingering, but we have a wildly different approach to illnesses. She tries to deny that she's even sick, and goes about her daily business, challenging her body to let her down. I cancel everything humanly possible, drink tea and orange juice religiously, and get as much sleep as I can convince my body to take. This is entirely due to my father, whose gruff advice I have finally learned to heed. He used to send me to bed as a child, but I'd sit up and read until I got too tired, or my head hurt too much to focus.

I did spend some of today reading, though. I finished Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. I admit, there were a couple times that I thought about punching Klosterman in the face, but I think if I were ever to have a real opportunity to do so, I'd pass it up just to listen to him persuade me into his opinion about things. After all, the book is a collection of essays, and the function of an essay is to persuade. He just happens to write monumentally entertaining essays, to the point where it's hard to question his point of view because you're so entertained.

Yesterday, I added the "Where I've Been" application to my Facebook page, and I think I'll spend June and July of next year backpacking in Europe. I saw a bunch of places last summer, but I didn't really get to SEE them. I'll be 25; it seems like an ideal age to acquire some stories and experiences. I can't make up my mind whether to dragoon someone into coming with me--right now I'm leaning towards going by myself. Mother will not be pleased. I don't think I'll tell her until next May. I think I'll also go on this Contiki tour; I have plenty of time to decide whether to attach it to the beginning or end of my trip. If I did it first, I could maybe find some people to travel around with for a little bit, and get settled back into the whole travelling thing. But since it involves some time at a resort, I could do it at the end to relax after traipsing around Europe for weeks on end.

Anyway, now my project is to save up a bunch of money to fund my trip. I'm going to work like a bitch so that I don't have to for two glorious months in 2008.

It always seems strange to me when I realize that people come to Toronto as tourists. We get a bunch of foreigners at the pub, and now that I live here, I'm continually walking past tourists taking photos of themselves in front of things. I guess you get used to it eventually, but since I've lived in Mississauga for most of my life, I see very little about the CN tower that warrants crossing an ocean.

I've got a bunch of places in Canada on my "Want to Go To" list, but I feel like they can wait. Europe needs to be done soon, while I'm still young and irresponsible. And maybe Australia, too. British Columbia and Nunavut are later's work.

long, rambling, and having way too much melancholy in it

I'm currently reading two books that have to do with the Meaning Of Life. Well, I suppose most literature has to do with the human condition and our search for a higher purpose in one way or another, but these two have a more particular and direct way of going about it.

On a whim in an over-priced used-book store (I was looking for reading material to keep me company on my solo lunch, which I was eating at Not Just Noodles in order to escape from work for an hour or so during my split), I bought Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I always liked the title, but I'd never had it on any sort of reading list. I knew of it mainly as a movie, anyway. I'm somewhat enjoying it so far, despite my total inability to relate to Tereza's devotion to Tomas, but it hasn't GRABBED me. And it's not that it's depressing me; I've been grabbed by melancholy books before. But it sure is depressing me.

The other one is Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman. It is also depressing me somewhat, but in an amusing way. The first I heard of him was perhaps a year ago, from my friend Tim, who said that my writing reminded him of Klosterman. I'm only thirty-nine pages in, and I have to say I'm flattered. Klosterman's a whole load wittier than I am. I'm probably going to ditch Kundera until I'm through this one. The reason I bought Sex, Drugs... was not because of the title or because of Tim, but because Peter said that I should start with this one, so as not to be overwhelmed by the urge to punch Klosterman in the face. There, credit where credit is due.

One of the habits I've adopted since moving to the city is going to a coffee shop and parking myself to read. So today, I wandered over to the Annex (I usually choose the Annex for this purpose because the hipsters are fun to watch, and also to check up on the progress of the restaurant that may someday open, which I have technically been employed by since the beginning of April) and read some of The Unbearable Lightness of Being while drinking a black coffee and doing a little people-watching. I was at first amused, and then disturbed, by a fellow patron. He sat down a few seats away at the ledge facing the window, and then proceded to tap on the counter, dance in his seat, and bang on the glass when two girls in mini-skirts walked by. It was hard for me to appropriately lose myself in the troubles of occupied Prague, so I eventually left and wandered off to a bookstore. I had time to kill before I was meeting L.Ro to see Ratatouille, so on yet another whim, I bought Sex, Drugs... (hahah... I bought sex and drugs... what, I'm immature. Deal with it). Then I got on the subway, and started snickering away.

For the record, I am not in love with Lloyd Dobler (if you haven't either seen Say Anything or read the first essay in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, you don't know what I'm talking about). I sort of wish I could be, but the fact of the matter is that I'd view with alarmed suspicion any man who wanted to move to England with me after knowing me for a month. I am more in love with the John Cusack from Grosse Pointe Blank. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much a more cynical and world-weary Lloyd. So maybe I AM in love with Lloyd Dobler after all. But only in the imaginary sense; actual lovelorn devotion freaks me out. More on this momentarily; it ties into my mood after Ratatouille.

I liked it very much; at a few points it seemed to be running a little long, but I can't really see what could have been cut. What got to me most, however, was Paris. I am suddenly consumed with the desire to go back and possibly have a whirlwind love affair, or even just to move there so I could gaze at the Eiffel tower for hours daily. I love Toronto, but it is seriously lacking in the romance department. Paris, however, effortlessly exudes romance. Standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower, I had an incredible urge to just grab the closest reasonably good-looking male and kiss him passionately. I didn't, because a) my sister was standing right there, and b) I couldn't commit to publically making out with a guy from our tour group on the second day. Yes, my commitment issues extended themselves to me being unable to attach myself to a male exclusively for a maximum of two weeks.

Anyway, this desire to take off for Europe resulted in me resolving to either move there, or spend next summer back-packing, at the very least. However, once the euphoria of that momentous decision faded, I was faced with the crushing realization that my life for the past indeterminate amount of years has been a series of waiting periods. I've been continually promising myself that my Real Life will begin after such and such a time is over. Once high school is done, university will be the beginning! Once I graduate university, the world will be my oyster! After I make enough to move out of my parents' house, life awaits! Once I have enough money in the bank to ensure that I can pay rent, and thus not have to worry about bankruptcy forcing me back into my parents' house, here I come, world!

All this made me think about the last time I felt entirely alive and happy. It was in Amsterdam, and I was completely drunk. I was wandering around the streets with a guy in the middle of the night, and we were looking for a secluded place to have sex. By the way, Amsterdam is a well-lit city. We eventually found a dark park-like area beside a canal, but it was the wandering that I remember as being thrilling. I suffer no illusions that it was the particular guy that made the night special; I'd unceremoniously attempted to ditch him the night before. Not to say he was repulsive--I hope you have enough faith in my taste to realize that--it was just that he seemed to want much more from me than I had to give. He still does, in fact: he drunk-texts me every few weeks or so professing to think of me often, the most recent time being tonight, soon after L.Ro and I got out of the movie. We had an argument a month ago when he invited himself to Toronto for a weekend, and I told him firmly that he COULD NOT stay at my place. I shot him down when he pitched the idea of some kind of long distance arrangement soon after we parted ways in Europe, but I take it he's striking out back home, and returns to the ideal of a woman who will wander a European city and shag him outdoors.

What can I say? Crazy things happen in Europe. And this is clearly a big part of why I want to go back. There's much more flavour in a European adventure, and my life is definitely lacking in spice right now.

in which I spoil Star Wars (so don't read if you've been living under a rock), and show how nerdy I am

One of my favourite luxuries is falling asleep to a movie I've seen approximately a million times before. There's something about listening to dialogue and sound effects that lulls me more than having music on (I have trouble sleeping without background noise). And since I've seen the movie so many times, I don't have to even watch it; I know what's going to happen, and I can pretty much picture it in my head. I can even stretch one movie out for a couple nights; each night I just start the DVD at the last point I distinctly remember before dropping off.

Of course, at some point I wake up when I hear the DVD menu's soundtrack looping incessantly, and I have to crawl to the foot of my bed and turn off the player, but usually that doesn't wake me up enough to make it hard for me to fall back asleep immediately.

Anyway, last night it was Return of the Jedi. The very beginning (in which Darth Vader arrives at the shell of the new Death Star), made me think of what a horrible mess George Lucas made of everything. That start, with the Nazi-esque ranks of Imperial officers, and Vader's ominous line, "The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am," has SO MUCH PROMISE. And, compared to the prequels, the rest of the movie isn't that bad (although I think it could have lived up to that fantastic beginning much better). While I'm on the topic, the line, "Inform the commander that Lord Vader's shuttle has arrived," is also somehow awesome.

Anyway, in Timothy Zahn's simply amazing trilogy of books (I feel like the world would be a better place if he'd written the plot outlines for the prequels), he distinctly points out the fact that the Empire's officers were all human males. EVIL. And I read somewhere that in early drafts of The Phantom Menace, Queen Amidala was going to be overtly racist towards the Gungans. How much more interesting would that have been? And since Palpatine was also from Naboo, it would totally give us a clear base for his suppression of non-humans as the Emperor.

Speaking of Amidala/Padme (and Padme is a goddamn stupid name), I think we could have left a little something up to the imagination with the birth of the twins. Leia (in Return of the Jedi) claims to remember her; we couldn't have her abscond with Leia to Alderaan, and die sometime in the interim before A New Hope? The naming scene and the whole "no will to live" scene really just killed Revenge of the Sith for me. Also the "NOOOOoooooOOOOOOOOO," although I've gotten a lot of mileage out of doing that whenever something slightly bad happens.

Alright, I really ought to go for my run right now, so I'll just list off a couple other things I'd change: ditch Shmi and Jar Jar altogether, make the disappearing dead Jedi thing standard, amp up the love triangle (I'd be okay with there being doubt over who was Luke and Leia's ACTUAL father), definitely not bring Boba Fett or even Jabba up at all, can the cutesy shit with kiddie Anakin and his pals, and make the Clone Wars more interesting and more... better.

is this... good? you know, comparatively?

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uhh... for serious?

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This is based, apparently, on my recent usage of the words "skank," "abortion," and "sex." Proof positive that movie ratings are fucked.

don't provide service that fizzles, provide service that SIZZLES!

As part of my on-going indoctrination into the customs and rules of my new workplace, I was forced to haul my ass out of bed early this morning and watch a video telling me how to provide "Now, that's service!" service. Also known as "Service that Sizzles!"

This one had slightly higher production values than many of the other videos/presentations I've been forced to sit through. There was some cutting to black and white shots from the point of view of a guest looking up at a server, and a waaaaay over-used flame graphic whenever the word "sizzle" came up on screen. Which it frequently did. I think I'll steal the DVD and see how drunk I get if I take a shot every time it comes up. The speaker had an unnatural hatred for the word "dude," and he had distractingly odd hair. A chunk of the video was taped while he motivated a group of restaurant managers at some kind of convention, which was fantastic because of how bored some of them looked.

The thing about these little sessions is that sometimes they tell you something that isn't insultingly self-evident or common sensical. I've been at this for awhile now, so I don't think I gleaned too much from this one. I still have a manual to weed through and complete a worksheet on (oh, how I wish I were joking). But as far as service seminars go, this was hardly the silliest. I don't know if I'll tell my new coworkers about the menu tours that were mandatory at TJ's, for fear that a manager will overhear me and decide it's a great idea.

in which I tell you stories about me being a skank

I jest. I may, perhaps, in the future, tell you of some of the skanky things I have done, but for the most part, this post will be skankage-free. The more you look at the word skank, the funnier it is. I merely mention skanks for those of you visiting from here, in case you were looking for some dirt.

So, I promised you the tale of my failed detoxification. It happened like this:

On Friday, I was hanging around and applying for jobs online (for those of you out of the loop, I am technically employed by a restaurant that has yet to finish its renovations, so I've been waiting around for three months. I am heartily sick of it, so I chose to start the job hunt process again). No more than an hour after I'd sent off a resume to an Irish pub downtown, I got a call for an interview. I go in for a Saturday noon meeting, and hey, presto! I have a job and start on Tuesday. MORNING. So I sez to myself, I sez, Susan, you're going to need a coffee to do that. But I could just add caffeine in, and continue feasting on brown rice and veggies, even though I was sorely tempted to just ditch the detox altogether.

However, it was not to be. We were going out to a martini bar to celebrate Tara's birthday, and, swept away by my celebratory mood and the tantalizing taste possibilities promised by a martini called a "Jazzmatazz," I got COMPLETELY drunk. I would say AMAZINGLY drunk, in fact. I had a hot dog, which is nowhere on my list of approved foods. (I don't know if this counts as skanky, but it was Taste of Italy where we were, so there were throngs of people everywhere, and I drunkenly critiqued their clothing choices and possibly hit on a few guys confrontationally. You'll have to ask Jo to be sure; that part of the night is a blur.) And then, when Jo and I got back to my apartment, we ordered wings and a meat lover pizza.

And then the next day was Father's day, and it takes a stronger-willed person than I to maintain a detox in my parents' house, especially when there's steak for dinner. And in case I had any illusions about going back on the diet, they were demolished by the fact that trainees eat for free at work. I had Guinness steak and mushroom pie and sweet potato fries for lunch today. It was glorious.

Less glorious is the fact that I have to wear a kilt and knee socks at work. This means shaving my knees every day and not sprawling around, limbs akimbo. But I'll tell you more about work later. I have a rant that's storing up about these servers having it ridiculously easy, but I'm going to wait until I've had some tables on my own, so that my pride isn't wounded when karma comes around and bites me in the ass.

I guess I'd better learn an Irish jig

I'm going to eventually write a post detailing how I catapulted off the wagon of my detox diet, and some philosophical musings on serving, now that I'm working again, but right now I am le tired. So I'll just tell you that I want this.

this made me go, "Awwwwwww...."

CLLEEEEEEOOOOOOOOO!

I caught a re-run of the Friends finale today, and I have a burning question: when you get off a plane at the last minute, what happens to your luggage? Is it a write-off? Do you have to call the airport in Paris (it's always Paris in these situations, isn't it?) and browbeat them into finding it and sending it back? Because they're really not going to delay the plane and search for your luggage and then haul it out. So what gives? I'd be pretty concerned about my clothes going across the globe, I don't care how romantic the gesture. And blowing all that money on a plane ticket... well, you can always come BACK from Paris. I think I'd be more like, "Well, I love you too, but I'm just gonna go... check out the sights, buy some souvenirs, you know. I mean, I have this ticket and I'm all packed. So, hold that thought, and I'll come back in a week or two. Unless I meet a charming mime. See ya!"

I see your schwartz is as big as mine!

I went to a few Luminato exhibits on Friday with the dear old sis. I mention it because the robot chair was nowhere near as exciting as it sounds; the artist had it billed as a "metaphor for life," so apparently life metaphorically involves a lot of whirring, long pauses, and a tech cheating a little to help the chair reconstruct itself. I was unimpressed. I prefer my metaphors to be much more abstract, high falutin', and exciting.

We also went down to the Harbourfront to check out the pulse light thingy. There are searchlights rigged up all around, and you can go up to them and hold onto some bars, and then your pulse is flashed across the sky in light form. It was definitely cool--so cool, in fact, that I forgot to say the hilarious thing I'd come up with for once I grabbed the bars (see the title of the post. I try not to miss opportunities for quoting Spaceballs). My pulse seems disappointingly weak when beamed out into the Toronto sky, I have to say.

Last night I went to a club for an old friend's birthday. Definitely not my scene; when faced with places where I hate the music and am uncomfortable with the people, I tend to get drunk in self-defence. Unfortunately, the drinks were six bucks a pop. Luckily, vodka and water isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, so besides a random shot of passion fruit liqueur, I managed to stay somewhat within the bounds of my detox. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to have any alcohol at all, but apparently vodka, gin and tequila are passable because they're low on sugars and distilled, or something.

Anyway, I managed not to fall over, despite wearing the infamous yellow shoes.

I miss my caffeine monkey

I think we can safely add gluten-free porridge, honey, and hot brown basmati rice (I actually didn't mind it when it got cold, but eating it fresh was rough) to the list of things I don't like. I already knew about the honey thing, but here I am, giving it a go anyway. It really does taste like bee puke (tm Jo).

The headaches from my caffeine withdrawl have subsided. That was a rough few days, I'm not going to lie. If I weren't determined to see if this diet thing will actually really do all the stuff it says it will, I'd have just added coffee in, and done everything else. As it is, I'm scoffing at the success stories from people who claim they stayed off the sauce when they finished the three weeks. I LIKE being addicted to coffee. I'm not angry that I'm a slave to my caffeine habit; it's my vice, my hipster affectation, my security blanket. There are plenty of worse things I could be addicted to. And life without some kind of sugary treat, a cup of hot black coffee and a book? NOT WORTH LIVING.

Well, two and a half more weeks to go. It's becoming an exercise in will power; if I can make it, I'll have practiced enough self-denial to know that I can do it at any time, and will thus relish the good things in life all the more. Or so I hope. In the meantime, it's certainly forcing me to eat a lot more green vegetables.

And now for something completely different: this article in The Star caught my eye. It's kind of weird that there are all these controversies swirling around Knocked Up. I really liked the movie; I didn't see it as having a hugely conservative message, nor did I find the pairing of Heigl and Rogen out of the ordinary. Howell even says (in the above article) "What would be far more unbelievable onscreen, frankly, would be a situation where a good-looking guy gets a homely girl pregnant and then decides to stay with her." I don't find Rogen unattractive; my taste runs towards the "Brittanical," as some have pointed out, but he's no monster. Also, he's funny and sweet, and that's something that most women look for. I thought it was pretty realistic that Alison gradually fell for Ben as she spent more time with him, and that they both fumbled the ball while trying to figure out and supply what the other wanted.

As for the abortion thing, well, some women decide to keep the baby. I probably wouldn't have, in that situation--and to be honest, I think Apatow could have avoided some of the believability issues by giving Alison a different job. An ambitious woman who just got a promotion to being an on-air personality probably wouldn't jeopardize that with an unplanned pregnancy. And besides providing a few laughs, Alison's job isn't really that important to the plot. It also would have been nice to see some of her reasoning behind keeping it; she lives in a guest house at her sister's place, she barely knows the father, and her bosses already told her to lose weight. But having an abortion is not a decision to take lightly, and Apatow does make it clear that she puts thought into it and struggles. I liked that Ben just stepped back and let her decide; few things make me angrier than a man trying to impose any decision about pregnancy on a woman. Basically, my body, my rules, screw you.

Well, I have to choke down more porridge now, and tidy my apartment. I know, you're thrilled.

breaking news: I hate soya milk

I had corn chips for breakfast. Oh, Susan, you say, shaking your head in unsurprised dismay, how is that any different from the days you're NOT on a diet? Well, dear readers, to you I say FIE. They're organic blue corn chips! And I'm allowed.

True, it was a little poorly planned to be eating them right off the bat, but here's my explanation: I was hungry and in a hurry. See, last night I read through the book and made a grocery list; also, there was some kind of exciting arrest made in front of the fire hall next door! There were like, six squad cars, and someone yelling for someone else to get down and keep his hands where they could be seen. This has nothing to do with my diet. It's just interesting. RIGHT. Now, the another reason I chose to go on this diet was that I pretty much ran out of food chez moi. I was going to have to go grocery shopping anyway, so why not restock with healthy and organic stuff, and see how far it got me?

Unfortunately, the No Frills in St. James Town is not noted for catering to the hippy element. So, when I finally hauled my ass out of bed this morning, I had to stumble down to the 24h Dominion's at Ryerson University. It is incredibly difficult to read labels and negotiate a shopping cart down aisles when you're sleep-deprived, craving caffeine, and suffering from a slight case of vertigo caused by the previous two things. Oh, and also an empty stomach. Besides coffee, I'm not yet suffering any extreme cravings for any one thing; rather, everytime I see something I'm not allowed to eat for the next three weeks, I suffer minor pangs that go away the instant my attention is drawn by another thing I'm not allowed.

The whole ordeal (and I do not use that term lightly) took longer than anticipated. You'll recall that I mentioned a job interview; the damn place was up at York U. I booted it home on the subway, showered, and crammed a job lot of chips down my throat as I dressed. Classy, yes. Then back on the subway, and then on a bus. It actually took me a lot less time to get there than I thought it would; I made up for it, however, by missing my stop. By a lot.

I'd decided, by the sounds and location of it, that it was a seedy pool hall for the locals. My suspicions seemed confirmed when I saw the outside; however, it was actually not that bad inside. And the owner turned out to be a nice little Chinese man who reminded me irresistably of semi-relatives on my Dad's side. In other words, if I lived closer, I'd totally work there. Which would probably be a huge mistake, but I'm honestly a sucker for older Chinese people.

black coffee... since the blues caught my eye

Attention, everyone: I am going off the sauce.

No, I don't mean alcohol. Well, I do, kind of, because I'm not allowed to have that either, but what I'm really referring to is coffee. I woke up today in a total funk. I've been getting a string of crappy news lately, and I'm sick of feeling lousy and logey. So naturally, I'm going to cut out one of my few real pleasures: my daily black ambrosia. Not only that, but I'm also off of chocolate, dairy, processed foods... yes, that's right, I'm detoxing. Three weeks of me being crazy and caffeine-deprived. Should be fantastic.

Actually, after a week my cravings and the assorted withdrawl symptoms should be gone, or so I'm told. I don't want this to become one of those diet blogs, but according to this book, in two weeks I should be looking and feeling fantastic. So I'll be keeping you posted on whether or not it's full of shit. I won't be, because I should be getting plenty of fibre. I admit to being pretty enamoured with the healthy vision it's promising: glowing complexion, clear mind, better sleep, more energy, fewer mood swings.... Come to think of it, if I have a clear mind and fewer mood swings, I might have to shut down this blog altogether. What am I gonna write about? How fantastic my life is? Pfft.

I also have a job interview across the city somewhere tomorrow. It's a good thing I've decided I don't really want this job; I have a very small chance of getting it without coffee.

you can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her read

In a fit of whimsy, I decided to wander down to the ROM this afternoon and see if they had any tickets left for their all-night extravaganza. By the time I got there, I was pretty grumpy; it was hot out, I'd forgotten my sunglasses, I hadn't showered yet, and there was a long line up. Plus, my iPod went on the fritz right before I left my apartment, so I was listening to my old mini-disc player, which pales in comparison to the smooth efficiency of my baby. But hey: something like this only happens so often. So I stood in line, and didn't kill the kids behind me, even though they had a hazy at best understanding of personal space. I can't stand being touched when I'm grouchy or stressed.

I ended up with tickets for three am. I get to roam the ROM in the middle of the night. Should be fabulous. I wandered over at around quarter to ten to check out the opening ceremonies. I'm a fan of both Sean Cullen and Paul Gross, but whoever wrote their banter should be shot. You'd think, with all those millions of dollars, that a few more could be scraped together to find a better writer. It's possible that I missed some underlying nuance, because I didn't hear the beginning, but honestly, what the hell was that? I milled around a little, but got annoyed and took off.

you'd think that I could muster up a little softshoe gentle sway

I had a pretty random day yesterday. I had an audition for something slightly hilarious; I'll tell you about if I get it--the wisest thing to do, post-audition, is to forget about it entirely, so as not to obsess. Easier said than done. Anyway, soon after I was back from that, my brother called. He had some time to kill downtown, and wanted to meet for sushi. So back on the subway it was. Over dinner, he asked if I wanted to come with him to his salsa lesson. I had plans to see Pirates III, but not until ten. So off to salsa it was! I'm not sure if it was actually billed as a class for gay men, but that's how it shook out. And of course, everyone had been there in previous weeks, so not only did I stick out as the straight female (there was a lesbian couple, and what I think was a straight woman with a gay man, but I'm not sure), I was the newbie. And I wasn't wearing shoes built for swirling around. But other than that, it was pretty fun. I've always wanted to try salsa. We did a lot of partner rotation, and everyone took it upon themselves to help me out. I don't think the leader in the lesbian twosome liked me very much, but she didn't seem that thrilled with anyone. Oh well. She's not my demographic.

The fact that I'd taken some social dancing before really helped me out. You don't know when community centre lessons taken with a wannabe pirate will come in handy, but then suddenly you're standing in a tiny studio on King Street West, trying to impress a handful of salsa-ing homosexuals who know your brother.

Anyway, after that I rushed home to tidy up after my exertions, and then took off for the bright lights of the Yonge and Eglinton centre. I had to give the Coles notes of Dead Man's Chest to Taylor, but I kept losing my train of thought, partially because Linds kept asking whether or not the barnacle-y guys were going to be back. Taylor had to lean over and poke me when the chest actually shows up in the sequel, because I'd completely forgotten to explain its significance. It occurs to me that I make very indifferent amounts of sense when I talk. I'm very easily distracted.

The movie was excessively long. I enjoyed parts of it, but overall it was just exhausting. Keira Knightley gets to kiss pretty much everyone. I admit to still getting a kick out of Jack Sparrow's swishy run; but this installment just wasn't fun.

Just a note to guilt-trip Toni: I had planned on seeing Knocked Up last night, but SOMEONE has made EVERYONE I KNOW* promise to wait and see it with HER. A fate, I might add, which I planned on avoiding by not talking to her until after I'd seen it. What? I'm only half-kidding. Call me if you assholes are seeing it in the T.dot on Sunday!

*Possibly a slight exaggeration.

oh why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?

Well, I'm up in the morning, it's true. I've approached it from the wrong side, however, so it's not precisely a success. I stayed up all night reading The Blind Assassin; I have that scraped feeling that comes from not sleeping, and the queasiness that comes from putting black coffee on top of that. I had to get up early this morning for an appointment anyway. At four am I decided that I would read just one more section, and then call it a night. Now it's nearly eight thirty, and not only am I done the book, I've eaten breakfast. I don't know that the coffee made a substantial dent in my vertigo, but next on my list is a shower, so maybe I'll be able to face my adoring public after all.

I really enjoyed the novel, but there's something about Atwood that always makes me slightly desperate. Her heroines are unnervingly human; they make mistakes, have regrets, are cowardly--and their ends are plausible, rather than happy. But they do have passion, which (or so I feel from the ripe old age of 24) I had when I was younger, and am now missing.

It's weird to read a novel that's so intimate with Toronto. Before I moved here I had only the vaguest understanding of the geography of the city; coming in from the 'Saugs, you get off the subway (after picking the stop closest to where you were headed by uncomprehendingly scrutinizing a map full of street names that meant very little), and become passingly familiar with a few blocks in the immediate radius. These unfocused blotches were only knitted together after I spent my first few weeks here roaming the city on foot. Now I rattle off directions and intersections with slight condescension--I guess I'm becoming a Torontonian.

you were racing in a car/ beside a boy you just don't know/ if he is up for what you have in mind

I just ate a bunch of popcorn, and now I feel pukey. But in better news, I spent way too much money on books today! Hurray! The problem with buying books is it's so easily justifiable. And then, eventually you'll be found, unconscious, in a huge pile of literature. I don't know. I just assume all excesses lead to unconsciousness in piles of things. We're lucky I'm here typing, and not buried in popcorn.

I blame my sister. She wanted to go to used book stores, and that meant I went in, too. So, having no will power, I'm now the proud owner of Cryptonomicon (Neal Stephenson; go read it immediately. I'm serious. Just be warned, it's a commitment novel... once you get into it, there's no getting out until the end), The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood), and Lady Susan/The Watsons/Sandition (Jane Austen's unfinished works). I also bought the DVD of Coffee and Cigarettes, which was one of those movies I read a review of and really wanted to see, back when I didn't live a short jaunt away from the Cumberland. Speeeaking of which, I should really go and see Paris, Je T'Aime, before four years pass and I end up picking it up randomly at a store on Bloor.

The movies I didn't buy (and it was a close thing) were The Saddest Music in the World and The Gods Must Be Crazy I and II. I'm racking up quite the list of things to blow my money on once I actually start working. Ooh, and I'm going to be putting aside portions of my tip money to save up for a Vespa and my next trip to Europe. I suppose I'll have to pay rent and buy food as well. Bummer.

As some of you may recall, I was briefly obsessed with getting a Vespa a while ago. I kind of forgot about it after I got back from my Europe trip. I can't remember why. Maybe the crushing disappointment of not being swept away to a charming villa by a gorgeous Italian man on a Vespa did it. Anyway, I walked past one the other day, and I couldn't think of one good reason why I shouldn't get one. I'm sure there ARE reasons, but that's later's work, after I've saved up the money. Probably by that point I'll be shacked up and be forced to put it towards a down payment on a house or maternity clothes. GOD, that's depressing.

I am trying, once more, to get to sleep before two am. I'm out of sleeping pills, but all they seemed to do was make it really hard for me to wake up.