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.