a direct order

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

a bit of musicality, please!

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

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

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

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

now, I need a change of scenery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

can't wait for someone to call me in public

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

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

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

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

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

screw Gnarls Barkley, here's some classic Weezer

one day I'll see my little Pepe again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In View by the Tragically Hip

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

I've named it Groucho

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

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

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

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

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

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

we won't let the others bleed us dry

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

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

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

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

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

a bonehead thing I did today

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

whorey, but not in a common way

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

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

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

no, I divined it

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

plenty on my mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rant to come, but for now, this:

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

update

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

some day my prince will come

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