Just a quick one:

Last night, I went out for appys and drinks with Coffeeboy and some friends of his who were in town for the day. Fun fun, yada yada.

The waitress, who was obviously near the end of her shift (the restaurant was closing soon) and had put up with the same crazy day as I, as the restaurant was two blocks from the cafe, came around for our drink order. Coffeeboy's Friend replied, "Just water, please, and an order of California roll."

"You want to drink your California roll?"

HA.

I tried to maintain a good first impression, but I thought I would explode laughing. I expained to her that I'm a waitress, too, and we shared laughs and high fives. Do not disturb the process! You may think it's no big deal, but when we're loaded with tables, the process is all we have!

I tipped her SO big.

Today was bound to be shitty from the get-go. It's two days after Christmas - optimal time for everyone to still have family around but be fresh out of orange juice. And fucking sick of turkey. Yet, everything else in town was still closed, for reasons completely beyond me. And one of the waitresses called in sick.

I know, I know, I should be happy about a certain leve of madness after the lull we've had. But for the first three hours, I was handling the whole restaurant on my own - that's about fourteen tables at that time of day. Then for the next five, I was splitting twenty six tables with one other girl. Yyyeah.

To be fair, it didn't go nearly as poorly as it could've. I suppose people are still all festive and shit. We didn't have any walk-outs and nary a complaint- at least not that I heard of - and while the tips weren't great, all in all people were pretty chill about it.

I do, however, have one little gem for the day to demonstrate to you the perils of being a waitress. I got a new table, shamefully explained that we were out of soup, and took an order for a beef sandwich on miche, and two alsatian pizzas. Wrote it down, handed it to the kitchen. Cool.

Flapped around like a chicken for about twenty minutes.

Realised that another table of mine, who's bil had gone in after the above one, had gotten their food first. Hmmm. Investigated. Turns out, the kitchen had somehow lost the first bill.

There are a million ways that could've happened, and it wasn't really anyone's fault. We place our bills on the counter dividing the kitchen and the cash/espresso bar, so it could've been as little as a gust of air, or someone thinking it was an old bill - food comes up at the same place, along with the bill to remind us where it goes when it's crazy - but at any rate, the kitchen didn't have an order.

Shit. These people are already getting impatient, and their food isn't even started. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I did a little 'fuckity FUCK!" dance around the kitchen for awhile, before realising that there weren't any alsatian pizzas left. FUCK.

Have I ever mentioned that whoever invented the phrase "killing the messenger" was talking about servers? The tables was not happy, and they were sure it was all my fault. I apologised profusely. I brought free appetizers. And I got another order - whew.

The kitchen, at this point, had a stack of orders a mile high and wasn't taking too kindly to the fact that I wanted to bump mine to the front. Not their problem, they said; they make the orders as they come in.

Have I ever mentioned that whoever invented the phrase...oh wait, yes I have. The kitchen was not happy, and they too were sure it was all my fault. So I apologized, I licked feet, and because I'd been going nonstop for six hours at this point, I cried a little. A sous chef, who also serves sometimes, took pity and got me bumped up at her own considerable peril. She'll be at the bar tonight, and I'll be buying her a beer or twelve, kthnx.

And not with that table's tip, that's for sure.

Disadvantages to moving in with Coffeeboy:

1. Sharing a bathroom with a boy. Hell, sharing a bathroom with anybody. I'm no girly girl, but I've got some fucking lotions.
2. Sharing an apartment with six people and two dogs. This is an advantage during potluck dinners. This is a distinct disadvantage at 3 a.m. when the apartment is crowded with drunken students. (Is there any other kind?)
3. OH YEAH, I only met Coffeeboy a few months ago. No matter how supernaturally perfect this relationship seems to be, I am still plagued with the entirely realistic possibility that he will turn out to be all wrong for me and everything will go downhill and I'll be trapped there for years socially isolated and live the consequences for the rest of my life and have my parents ask about him every time they see me after and where have I seen this before?
4. Moral obligation to give up my imaginary yet torrid affair with the mailman at work. He's also a fireman! Come on!

Advantages to moving in with Coffeeboy:

1. The little bird family that lives above his windowsill that we watch on Sunday mornings before strolling to the cafe for cappucino and baguette and did I mention that it's perfect?
2. The man takes uncanny joy in giving me massages. No, really.
3. My toothbrush hasn't been out of my purse in two months. It would like a home.
4. So would I.

Well, it looks like I've found one.

Coffeeboy and I went to a show last night. Actually, it was a Christmas party of sorts, held by a local studio that produces local artists singing about local shit. Ya know, tamborines and panflutes and waaaaaay too much acoustic guitar. Now, I get sentimental over an acoustic guitar, too, but there's a limit.

It was held at a cafe that's closing down, sadly. The Mug has been a haven for downtown artists, with poetry and music nights every week and a gaudy/cute atmosphere. Coffeboy made the poster for the show, and being a downtown event, we both knew the majority of the people performing.

Now. When M. and I broke up (New years resolution? Shut the fuck up about M.), I had to attend my sister's wedding a few weeks later. Well, it was a bit more than 'attend' - I was the maid of honour, so I had to drag myself out of the ice cream phase and shuffle through the whole white-wedding true-love thing for a day. Mmmm, fun. I kept my mouth shut, though, and I don't think anyone was the wiser that it was a miserable day for me, even when my entire extended family asked me, one by one, 'where's M? What happened to M.? We liked M.! Hey, where's M.?"

Naturally, I got drunk off my ass.

Afterwards, Bestfriend (who was my date) took me, as only Bestfriend could, to my first single-girl raging party. Let's look at the math: professional hair and makeup, way too many minty shooter things, a miniskirt, no idea whatsoever how one should navigate as a single girl, and a slowly rising burning hate of M. and acute desire to exact revenge. Bestfriend disappeared to tongue wrestle with a tattoo-laden drummer.

And that's how I met Ex.

Ex was a good guy. He's sweet and gentle and funny and was the first to show me that relationships need not be hurtful. Some people will love me for me. I still have trouble with this. We dated for a few months, but it was, of course, horrible timing for me. I broke it off, citing that I needed to learn to be alone before I could be with someone else again. He took it badly and refused to talk to me for months. Honestly, it had been a long time since I`d thought of him.

That is, until I ran into him at the Mug last night. Actually, I knew he would be there well in advance, and it was a good deal of why I wanted to go. (The name of his band was plastered across the poster Coffeeboy made, so he was well warned, too.)

I walked in and saw him there, and he promptly looked away. Made an excuse to leave for half an hour. Pretended I didn`t exist for the better part of the night. Oh, the awkward. Finally, I passed a little note to Coffeeboy, saying `this is going to be awkward as all hell`, and walked over to where he was sitting.

I put my hands on the back of his chair, leaned over, and whispered, `Are you going to ignore me all night?'
'Yup.'
'Well, that's downright silly of you. Come outside and talk to me for a minute.'
'I don't see the point.'
'Ex, you're already putting your mittens on. I know you're going to.'

So we went outside. Did I mention the snow? And the cold? I've never experienced snow or cold like this before, especially not around here. At that time last night, it was starting to dump down what has become another foot of snow, and is still coming.

'How are you?'
'Did you really drag me out here to ask me how I am?'
'No. Well, yeah. I mean, I want to talk to you. I don't want you to ignore me. Don't hate me.'
'I don't hate you. I nothing you.'
'Well, I suppose I can take that,' and he chuckled a little despite himself. 'No, actually, I wanted to apologize to you. I hurt you. You didn't deserve that.'
'I never believed what you told me about why you left.'
'It was true.'
'We could have dealt with that! What can I do to help you?'

I realised that he didn't know about Coffeeboy. And it was weird, and totally new to me, to be standing there with someone I cared deeply about but left anyways. I still cared about him, and it felt odd that I was with him and not holding him. But Coffeeboy was inside, and Coffeeboy is even more different and strange to me, because it's so much better and so much deeper. There's nothing wrong with what I had with Ex, but it didn't scratch the surface of what I have with Coffeeboy.

'Just don't play to zombie song. I had a nightmare about zombies last night.' He laughed a little, and then cried a little. But he didn't say anything more.

He played the goddamn zombie song, and a song I helped him write one Sunday we spent in bed. It was a great set, and they got more applause than anyone. He left right after without saying goodbye.

It's been snowing. Where I live, we don't normally get snow; well, we don't normally get snow that doesn't turn into our more standard rain by noon. But there's been snow on the ground for a few days now, and we're getting more as I, er, type. It looks like we might even be in for a --- you know. That thing.

Snow means a few things:

1) It's fucking cold.

2) Sister, who doesn't like driving in the snow, is more or less stranded in the house. This makes Munchkin cranky, which makes her cranky. Why, just now, I was barked orders to leave my shoes outside - did I mention it's snowing? - lest the white devil GET ALL OVER THE GODDAMN FLOOR OMGZZZZ!!!!!!11

3) It is, however, kinda pretty.

4) The restaurant has been dead. Like I said, we're not used to snow, and people will not drive anywhere in it. I worked three and a half hours today. I'm therefore worried, and stressed, and losing sleep and yada yada did I mention the anxiety? over money. All that jazz about the shitty economy, you know, hits the service industry first, and I can't live without decent tips.

Bleh. Shitty stress aside, we had an eventful morning at the cafe. Our pastry chef basically kicks ass. She's always running around giving lectures at the college and winning awards and shit, and today! managed to get a TV crew into the restaurant. I was told that they were showing up about an hour before they did, and then proceeded to run around like a chicken with my head cut off dusting, and polishing, and clearing, and....and.... did I mention the anxiety?

They shot mainly the kitchen, and mainly Pastry Chef preparing a little desert square named after my hometown. Cameras in the kitchen, by the way, make for much less cursing and off-colour jokes.

And, in other completely random news, Coffeeboy and I are making yogurt tonight. He stumbled across his old roommate's family legacy of bacteria culture left in his cupboard, from when it was passed down to her - the roommate - from a grandmother who died. The roommate, being a leather-clad lesbian, was slightly opposed to the idea of incubating curdled milk, and there the bacteria sat, forgotten.

That is, until Coffeeboy found it. Coffeeboy grew up on a farm, and knows all sorts of weird things like How To Propogate Jade Plants, and How To Compost Under Your Kitchen Sink. After extensive googling, he also knows How To Make Yogurt. The centuries old family bacteria culture will not die, it seems, at the hands of my hippy-assed boyfriend.

People.

About the coalition.

I know Harper is telling you guys a lot of shit. And I know it's really, really tempting to believe it. But we need to set a few things straight:

1) This IS democratic. There's a lot of confusion around how our parliamentary system works - too much weed and not enough high school, a plight I plenty understand - so let's clear it up. We elect MPs, not Prime Ministers, to make our decisions for us. 65% of Canadians did NOT vote Conservative, which means that 65% were pissed when they got in.

2) It's perfectly democratic to vie for a vote of no confidence, especially in the case of a minority government. Nobody is breaking any rules. Google the King-Byng affair, and be amazed! that this has all happened before. It just doesn't happen often. That's how pissed we are about Harper.

3) Now, this is touchy. The Bloc. First, it's incredibly ignorant and, well, kinda mean, to assume that Bloc = Seperatist. While we're on that, let's consider how slanted our media was of them, too. Harper is trying to scare you with horror stories of - oh noes! - THE FRENCH. (Insert flying monkey theme.) Now, even if the Bloc WERE dreadful and aweful, they still wouldn't be a part of the proposed coalition government. The sum and total of the Bloc's involvement is this: they've agreed not to vote against to coalition for 18 months. That's it. Contrary to what Harper would have you believe, the Bloc does not have veto power.

All I ask of you - plead, really - is to be informed. I know it's hard to find unbiased information, but at least read both sides and decide for yourself. Learn the ins and outs of the parliamentary system, especially if you plan on accusing acts of being contrary to it. If you still want to support the conservatives, be my guest. It's not rightys who piss me off, it's ignorance.

On that note, I attended a pro-coalition protest the other day. There were two, but I had to miss the first last Saturday because of work. Apparently, it was a good'er, with rightys on one side of the street and lefties on the other, waving signs and generally being ornery Canucks. The one I went to was much mellower, held outside our MPs office, who s0 didn't think we'd be willing to haul ass to the north end, right next to Wal Mart in all it's plastic glory, to protest. There were speaches, and there were crankyfucks, and there was a TV crew. But it was a small group and dispersed pretty quickly.

I told everyone I left M. because he forced the whole baby-hetero thing on me. He told everyone it was because I was cold and hated families, and couldn't stand that he didn't. The truth, of course, is somewhere in between.

My brother in law was in a car accident yesterday. He was riding his bike to work. He's alright, after a minor surgery on his leg today. My sister, of course, went to stay with him in the hospital, and left Munchkin home with me.

At 9:30, he started to cry. By 10:30, he was kicking and screaming for mama. I tried to be calm and soothing, but the very sight of me made him angrier. Not only was I not his mama, I wasn't anyone's mama and it was ridiculous to try to pass as one.

I know, I know. He was scared. Yada yada. I shouldn't blah blah myself so yada yada for gobble. But this is my irrational freakout, and we're playing by my rules.

The truth I mentioned? It's that he's right. I'm not. He knows, M. knows, and after a real mama got home I walked upstairs to a tiny bedroom alone and drafted this. (You think this is irrational? You should see the rough draft.) Everybody knows. I can't even cook.

I'm no one's mama, and chances are, I never will be. Even if I got my shit together long enough to properly want it, there's a significant chance my uterus is damaged and it won't happen. Little ones can smell it on me, I know it, and so can guys like M. and mothery-types like Sister. I once consoled myself with the fact that I do other things, but I've barely written a thing in a year. I'm just a waitress.

The only one who doesn't seem able to smell this on me is Coffeeboy. After getting myself sufficiently worked up last night, I went over to his house. I was still crying, and only realised that it was stupid when I couldn't explain to him why.

"They know! They look at me, and they just....know!"
"Know what?"

And I couldn't answer. I'm still trying to find the words. They know that it's not only I don't want to, but also that I probably couldn't if I tried. And it's expected that I do.

To my surprise, Coffeeboy laughed. That's when I realised just how irrational I was being. He kissed the tears off my cheek and joked, "Well, if you cain't raise me no sons, I's leave'n you."

And then we went to sleep. Not in this house that always reminds me of what I'm not, but in his apartment that's even tinier, even draftier and in every way shittier....except for the fact that it houses five broke artists, and one waitress who finally feels like one there.

Coffeeboy and I were grilling red peppers the other day when it dawned on me. Food and sex are inextricably linked. I never cooked much before the days of Coffeeboy, and despite having worked in multiple restaurants and being a horny little bugger, this somehow escaped me. Me! Missing out on an aphrodisiac!

But it's true. As we stood there over the heat, all sorts of aromas wafted up - some spicy, some sweet, some savoury. I looked at him and blurted it out, right in front of multiple roomates, "Food makes everyone horny, doesn't it?" He turned bright red and laughed. Everyone else laughed, too, but I got to thinking.

There's a reason first dates are always for dinner. I see couples in all the time, clearly on first dates. I have a personal theory that when two first-daters both order dishes with lots of garlic, the date is officially going poorly. When they ask to split desert, I know they're going home together.

It can't be coincidence that kitchens are so full of dating drama. Who's dating whom behind who's back is always a challenge to keep up with. That is, until you walk into the ladies' room at the wrong time and find two - or more - smooching. Yup, that's a good way to keep up.

I have at least part of this chalked up to the ammount of (seemingly) inadvertant touching that goes on behind the scenes. The till and the espresso bar, for example, are right next to each other, and both are pretty high traffic areas for us. It's not uncommon to be desperate for a coffee mug mid-rush, needing one NOW, and come back to find four people crammed into a two-foot radius. The only thing to do is get on in there, squeezing between as many people as necessary. It's a cozy job.

Between the food=sexy atmosphere, and the fact that the restaurant industry is so shallow as to hire primarily attractive people, I've been often suspicious of brushes and nudges that seem a little....unnecessary. Often strategically placed. But all seemingly innocent and, to be completely honest, nothing a healthy young gal like myself might complain about. Ever wonder why your server always has that 'vibe'?

And the kitchen. Tender dripping roasts. Sizzles, more cramped quarters, and the addition of some sweat. Perhaps they have it worse -- or better. Last weekend I found one of the cooks and one of the waiters tongue wrestling at a show, and I can't say I blame either of them.

Back to the other night. Grilled red peppers? Amazing. Out of nowhere, Coffeeboy looked up at me and said, "Didn't you ever wonder why I love cooking? And who better to throw down on the bed than a waitress?"