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.