When I moved, it took me awhile to get my phone hooked up. So, as far as many were concerned, I disappeared off the map for awhile. Now, when I finally did get a new phone, I shared the new number with everyone I ran into.
This, of course, explicitly - and unintentionally, I assure you - made me unreachable by many people I had once called friends. Oh, not that there was drama or fighting or anything. I moved downtown, I moved on. These were people who knew me with M. I don't see them much anymore, and when I happen to run into them it's pleasant but a hair awkward. This is how people drift: they get new phones.
So imagine my surprise when, just a few minutes ago, Coffeeboy's phone rang. "Hello?" he said. "Uh, yeah, she is. She's right here."
He handed me the phone. On the other end, a voice I hadn't heard in a long time: "Hi. It's me."
It took me a minute to place it. It was Drama Boy, a considerable ghost from my single past. When things were at their worst with M., I found myself falling for Drama Boy, who on one or two occasions got very drunk and confessed that it was mutual. Actually, scratch that. Drama Boy had very little idea how much I really felt; I was afraid that, should I admit it to him or myself, I would do the unthinkable while still with M.
By the time I broke up with M., Drama Boy was in a relationship. It tortured me. She was such a nice girl. Drama Boy and I are very much alike: we're both dominant, opinionated - often in very different directions - and a veritable pain in the ass to date. As such, we both date more passive people. Balance, ya know. I kept my mouth shut while cursing him for not being able to 'handle' me. This, of course, was utter bullshit, but it made me feel a whole lot better.
I did a lot of things I'm not proud of during that time. We partied together every weekend; ironically, mostly above the bar where I now live. Then we'd stumble back to my place, and because the beer had clouded our judgement, quite often share my tiny bed and hold each other. No, we never had sex. He tried once or twice, but I never let it go that far- but looking at that man's abs, you'd wonder why.
The next morning he'd go out for breakfast with Her and I'd cry in bed all morning.
Finally, the day came when they broke up. To say I was excited was an understatement. There was a halter top, there was way too much beer, slurred confessions, and finally, finally, the back seat of his car.
Romantic? Uh, no. Trashy. And a disapointment. I don't know what was going through his brain, but I can tell you I came quite violently to the realisation that I had simply been trying to fill a void left by M., with the closest thing nearby. Neither of us ever called the other again.
That is, until tonight.
We exchanged 'how are you's and made small talk. His little sister's baseball team is having a beer and burger night two weekends from now. Would I like to come?
I said yes - put me down for two tickets.
I had hoped that by the time I had reached the end of the story I would know what it was all about. I don't. He will look damn good when I see him, but I don't think I'll feel anything at all. I think - I hope - I will realise that I've moved on, learned a thing or two, and don't make such silly mistakes any more.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
For servers, Valentine's Day is not the candy-coated, pink-heart-shaped day you probably think of. Like a lot of things, that day is reserved for customers. Just like you enjoy the clean, atmospheric dining room while we see primarily the greasy kitchen with two years of dust under the fridge, it's my job to take a section of ten in a rush that goes all. day. long. And, of course, to do it with a smile on my face -- gee, aren't we all just so goddamn cheery today?
(Waitresses, too, look very different depending on whether or not you've caught them in the dining room or kitchen. Dining room: houseplants and smiling waitresses. Kitchen: greasespots and snarling bitches.)
It bothers me a bit that no one seemed aware that yesterday we were celebrating something much, much bigger. You see, as of about 8 a.m. yesterday, we had a peculiar cosmic alignment: yes indeed, the moon was seen in the seventh house, and jupiter lined up just nicely with mars. It would seem that the age of aquarius is here at last. For those keeping track, this only happens about once every 2000 years.
At any rate, I found myself sweeping the rather disgusting floor after a long day yesterday. A six-hour rush will leave some dirt, I tell ya, and we didn't make it home until well, well after closing. But as I swept under each little cafe-style table, I went over all that had transpired there throughout the day. A few got stood up. A few were asked to leave, or at least reminded that this was a family establishment. A few went smoothly. I saw two breakups.
Coffeeboy waited patiently with - what else? - a coffee for me to be finished. We took home the remaining chocolate-covered strawberries, but I had warned him well in advance that we weren't acknowledging the dreaded V-day that is not only a ridiculous Halmark holiday, but looks even worse from the inside. So we didn't.
He did, however, make me the single best fettucine alfredo I've ever tasted. And he did wrap his arms around me and dance with me in the kitchen, which may be in a crowded apartment but has no grease spots I can see, and we celebrated just us, the collective us, swirling around out there in space trying to make something out of the stars.
(Waitresses, too, look very different depending on whether or not you've caught them in the dining room or kitchen. Dining room: houseplants and smiling waitresses. Kitchen: greasespots and snarling bitches.)
It bothers me a bit that no one seemed aware that yesterday we were celebrating something much, much bigger. You see, as of about 8 a.m. yesterday, we had a peculiar cosmic alignment: yes indeed, the moon was seen in the seventh house, and jupiter lined up just nicely with mars. It would seem that the age of aquarius is here at last. For those keeping track, this only happens about once every 2000 years.
At any rate, I found myself sweeping the rather disgusting floor after a long day yesterday. A six-hour rush will leave some dirt, I tell ya, and we didn't make it home until well, well after closing. But as I swept under each little cafe-style table, I went over all that had transpired there throughout the day. A few got stood up. A few were asked to leave, or at least reminded that this was a family establishment. A few went smoothly. I saw two breakups.
Coffeeboy waited patiently with - what else? - a coffee for me to be finished. We took home the remaining chocolate-covered strawberries, but I had warned him well in advance that we weren't acknowledging the dreaded V-day that is not only a ridiculous Halmark holiday, but looks even worse from the inside. So we didn't.
He did, however, make me the single best fettucine alfredo I've ever tasted. And he did wrap his arms around me and dance with me in the kitchen, which may be in a crowded apartment but has no grease spots I can see, and we celebrated just us, the collective us, swirling around out there in space trying to make something out of the stars.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
When things are hectict and crazy and all-around shitty, I sometimes wonder why I bothered changing, oh, everything about my life. Leaving M., starting fresh on my own with a new life, blowing my student loan getting on my feet, yada goddamn yada.
Today was one of those days: oh, yeah. This is why. Life is simple. Just breathe it in.
Nothing unsually great happened, and maybe the great part was that it wasn't unusual. It feels like spring today. The cafe was steady but not too busy - just enough to have plenty of regulars to chat with and friends stopping in. Time for coffee breaks, a fun staff to hang out with all day. After work, a glass of wine with friends who happened by on the patio, people watching, waving to more neighbours and friends. The good feeling that always comes with walking home with a bag of fruits and veggies from the grocery store, to roommates who are more like family, one big dog who is SO. EXCITED. to see you, and the best boyfriend a girl could hope for.
And, now, going to help chop up said veggies for a wonderful dinner we'll share.
Oh, yeah.
Today was one of those days: oh, yeah. This is why. Life is simple. Just breathe it in.
Nothing unsually great happened, and maybe the great part was that it wasn't unusual. It feels like spring today. The cafe was steady but not too busy - just enough to have plenty of regulars to chat with and friends stopping in. Time for coffee breaks, a fun staff to hang out with all day. After work, a glass of wine with friends who happened by on the patio, people watching, waving to more neighbours and friends. The good feeling that always comes with walking home with a bag of fruits and veggies from the grocery store, to roommates who are more like family, one big dog who is SO. EXCITED. to see you, and the best boyfriend a girl could hope for.
And, now, going to help chop up said veggies for a wonderful dinner we'll share.
Oh, yeah.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I met with a friend, T., from karate the other day for coffee. He popped into the cafe while I was working, and said he really needed to talk, so naturally I worried all day until I saw him. As it turns out, he and his wife, J., are splitting up, after nearly 21 years together.
Oh, I know. This happens all the time. Thing is, though, I really looked up to T. and J. as a couple. I often told T. I wanted a relationship just like his: they seemed so in love, yet so free to have their own lives outside of each other. They were still individuals, and back when I was in my very copdependant relationship with M., that seemed ideal. In fact, watching their relationship was a lot of what gave me the courage to leave.
Maybe I idealized it so much that I failed to notice how they never spent time together. According to T., the relationship had degenerated to passing nods in the hallway, and little else.
This isn't to say that my copdependancy with M. was the answer, either. Of course it wasn't - I was desperately unhappy. What this all means, in a selfish sort of way I would never let on to either T. or ., is that I really still don't have any idea what the right balance is. And that's scary.
When I got home from hanging out with T., Coffeeboy was already in bed. I crawled in next to him, and for the first time in a long time, spent all night curled up against him.
Oh, I know. This happens all the time. Thing is, though, I really looked up to T. and J. as a couple. I often told T. I wanted a relationship just like his: they seemed so in love, yet so free to have their own lives outside of each other. They were still individuals, and back when I was in my very copdependant relationship with M., that seemed ideal. In fact, watching their relationship was a lot of what gave me the courage to leave.
Maybe I idealized it so much that I failed to notice how they never spent time together. According to T., the relationship had degenerated to passing nods in the hallway, and little else.
This isn't to say that my copdependancy with M. was the answer, either. Of course it wasn't - I was desperately unhappy. What this all means, in a selfish sort of way I would never let on to either T. or ., is that I really still don't have any idea what the right balance is. And that's scary.
When I got home from hanging out with T., Coffeeboy was already in bed. I crawled in next to him, and for the first time in a long time, spent all night curled up against him.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Well. Long time, no posts. I've had some good stories, too, with the weather nicer and people wanting to come downtown more. But, in adjusting to living with Coffeeboy, I haven't found the time.
I'll share one quicky:
The other morning, while I was still alone in the dining room (I'm the only one on from 8 to 10 most days), a group of four businessmen sat down at a popular table. I usually don't mind serving the suites that wander in from the conference center a few doors down: they're polite, most of the time, and while they're the worst culprits for looking at me the same way as they might look at the plants, they orders lots, wait patiently for their skinny decafs, and usually tip decently. It's an easy, if boring, table.
But these guys. Actually, it was really only one in particular. I dropped menus off and took a drink order, then went to get their coffees. I came back a few minutes later, lattes in hand, and asked how they were doing with the menu. Turns out, they hadn't even looked at them yet.
That's cool. Sometimes you get to talking and just don't. I offered to come back in a few, but these dingbats wanted me to recite everything on the breakfast menu. Nothing is frustrating quite like, "what do you have?" when there's a goddamn menu in front of them. But I kept my poker face, and explained every last thing on the breakfast menu.
This is when Turdface speaks up. Don't we have a croissant, with some meat and cheese or something? Why, yes we do, it's on the lunch menu right below breakfast, if you care to take a look. No, that won't do, he wants a croissant, with.... gruyere! And.... eggs! Scrambled! No, overeasy! And.... tomato!
Make that four!
Aaaalright, fine. They were starting to get on my nerves, but it was slow, and Chef was in a pretty good mood and probably wouldn't crank at me. Special order, it is.
As I was walking away, though, I heard Turdface grumble, "If they can make it, why isn't it on the menu?"
Well, asshat, we don't list every goddamn possible combination of food. And you didn't even READ the menu.
Chef was cool about it, and a few minutes later, I had the croissant things. As I dropped them off at the table, Turdface says to me mockingly, "See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Do not belittle the waitress! Ever! It WAS a pain in the ass, actually, and they and I were both lucky Chef was feeling benevolent enough to do it. If the place were busy, I would have been shot on sight for bringing back a special order like that. But I kept my poker face, and I don't think any of them noticed the angry scowl as I walked away without replying. Seriously. It amazes me how much crap I'm willing to take sometimes just to pay the bills.
As Turdface was leaving, by the way, he felt the need to bitch one more time at the barista because he could smell the kitchen wafting down to his table, and were we sure the fans were working? Oy vey. The smell of food in a restuarant is a GOOD thing, jackass. Would you rather smell bleach?
Anyways. What was I saying?
Right. Coffeeboy, life. Things are good. I haven't quite finished moving in yet, as there are still a few pieces of furniture to go. But I haven't so much as stepped foot in my old place in three days, so I think we're calling it official. It's nice. It's peaceful, and quiet. Right now I'm typing away while Coffeeboy is making something delicious with the groceries I bought this morning. Afterwards, I'll work on a rewrite for a contest coming up over tea, and he'll listen to CBC and sketch. Later we'll go for a walk on the waterfront, before going to bed early, because we both have to be up in the morning.
It's been good. I feel more at home now, especially since invading the bathroom yesterday. Have you ever seen a bachelor's bathroom? If you haven't, pray you never will. Oh, the lysol. Admitedly, I'm a bit of a freak when it comes to the bathroom being clean - which is funny, because I can also accumulate a dirty laundry pile like you've never seen. But the bathroom is where hygiene happens! I spent an hour on the shower alone. Coffeeboy poked his head in, and said, I bloody well quote, "I didn't know you were supposed to clean that!"
I'll share one quicky:
The other morning, while I was still alone in the dining room (I'm the only one on from 8 to 10 most days), a group of four businessmen sat down at a popular table. I usually don't mind serving the suites that wander in from the conference center a few doors down: they're polite, most of the time, and while they're the worst culprits for looking at me the same way as they might look at the plants, they orders lots, wait patiently for their skinny decafs, and usually tip decently. It's an easy, if boring, table.
But these guys. Actually, it was really only one in particular. I dropped menus off and took a drink order, then went to get their coffees. I came back a few minutes later, lattes in hand, and asked how they were doing with the menu. Turns out, they hadn't even looked at them yet.
That's cool. Sometimes you get to talking and just don't. I offered to come back in a few, but these dingbats wanted me to recite everything on the breakfast menu. Nothing is frustrating quite like, "what do you have?" when there's a goddamn menu in front of them. But I kept my poker face, and explained every last thing on the breakfast menu.
This is when Turdface speaks up. Don't we have a croissant, with some meat and cheese or something? Why, yes we do, it's on the lunch menu right below breakfast, if you care to take a look. No, that won't do, he wants a croissant, with.... gruyere! And.... eggs! Scrambled! No, overeasy! And.... tomato!
Make that four!
Aaaalright, fine. They were starting to get on my nerves, but it was slow, and Chef was in a pretty good mood and probably wouldn't crank at me. Special order, it is.
As I was walking away, though, I heard Turdface grumble, "If they can make it, why isn't it on the menu?"
Well, asshat, we don't list every goddamn possible combination of food. And you didn't even READ the menu.
Chef was cool about it, and a few minutes later, I had the croissant things. As I dropped them off at the table, Turdface says to me mockingly, "See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Do not belittle the waitress! Ever! It WAS a pain in the ass, actually, and they and I were both lucky Chef was feeling benevolent enough to do it. If the place were busy, I would have been shot on sight for bringing back a special order like that. But I kept my poker face, and I don't think any of them noticed the angry scowl as I walked away without replying. Seriously. It amazes me how much crap I'm willing to take sometimes just to pay the bills.
As Turdface was leaving, by the way, he felt the need to bitch one more time at the barista because he could smell the kitchen wafting down to his table, and were we sure the fans were working? Oy vey. The smell of food in a restuarant is a GOOD thing, jackass. Would you rather smell bleach?
Anyways. What was I saying?
Right. Coffeeboy, life. Things are good. I haven't quite finished moving in yet, as there are still a few pieces of furniture to go. But I haven't so much as stepped foot in my old place in three days, so I think we're calling it official. It's nice. It's peaceful, and quiet. Right now I'm typing away while Coffeeboy is making something delicious with the groceries I bought this morning. Afterwards, I'll work on a rewrite for a contest coming up over tea, and he'll listen to CBC and sketch. Later we'll go for a walk on the waterfront, before going to bed early, because we both have to be up in the morning.
It's been good. I feel more at home now, especially since invading the bathroom yesterday. Have you ever seen a bachelor's bathroom? If you haven't, pray you never will. Oh, the lysol. Admitedly, I'm a bit of a freak when it comes to the bathroom being clean - which is funny, because I can also accumulate a dirty laundry pile like you've never seen. But the bathroom is where hygiene happens! I spent an hour on the shower alone. Coffeeboy poked his head in, and said, I bloody well quote, "I didn't know you were supposed to clean that!"
Monday, January 12, 2009
I went to a friends 30th birthday party on Saturday night. It was held at a lounge/sushi joint about a block from my - er, Coffeeboy's - apartment, and all of downtown was out in form. I spent hours altering an old white dress to be backless with navy blue corsetting, and I daresay I looked quite the babe. It was something akin to that infamous Marilyn Monroe dress, and I paired it with ridiculous shoes, and while everyone was rock'n the old LBD, I was quite proud of myself for standing out and turning a few heads.
Pride comes, of course, before a fall.
There were several key people there, like That Guy I Used To Like (yup, still cute), That Guy I Once Made Out With, That Other Guy I Kinda Want To Make Out With, and Yup Definitely Bisexual. People who, you see, I really felt needed to eat their hearts out for having ever slighted me or not returned calls.
There was a DJ, a dance floor, and a very long drink line. While waiting for our turn to order martinis - on special! - Coffeeboy and I found ourselves chatting with a mutual friend of the birthday boy. Coffeeboy and Birthday Boy have a communications firm on the drawing board right now, with Coffeeboy slated to do all the design and Birthday Boy to do...whatever else communications firms do. They swapped business cards, they promised to get together.
Finally, the friend turned to me and said, "and what about yourself? What do you do?"
Awkward pause.
I searched frantically for help in Coffeeboy's eyes, but he gave me a little nudge to answer instead.
"Oh. I....I'm a waitress."
Another awkward pause.
"That's....nice."
Coffeeboy pointed out to me later that I looked positively mortified when I said this. Why? My job is demanding, isn't it? I've survived where most quit within two months, haven't I? Somehow, even though Coffeeboy reminded me insistedly about all these things, I knew that I would never be comfortable talking about my work in that sort of scenerio. I was only comfortable when I managed to toss in that I teach karate, I write, I yada yada yada.
I know that that woman held the same view of waitresses as most of my customers: I don't have an education, I probably party every weekend, and I'm really not fit to do anything more challenging. What I'm not so happy to admit is that, when push comes to shove, I'm not always up to defending the truth. Suddenly, my short dress seemed sexy, just like my waitress persona. My cosmopolitan seemed classy, just like her as well. I wanted so badly to crawl out of my skin, of the image of myself I'd constructed, but I couldn't remember where the waitress stopped and I began. I didn't know whether I wanted to change the subject or brag about serving the entire restaurant myself.
What I did was let myself fade into the background of the conversation, watching the sushi waitress walk by in kitten heels and a pencil skirt to show off her curves and thought she was holding that tray all wrong.
Pride comes, of course, before a fall.
There were several key people there, like That Guy I Used To Like (yup, still cute), That Guy I Once Made Out With, That Other Guy I Kinda Want To Make Out With, and Yup Definitely Bisexual. People who, you see, I really felt needed to eat their hearts out for having ever slighted me or not returned calls.
There was a DJ, a dance floor, and a very long drink line. While waiting for our turn to order martinis - on special! - Coffeeboy and I found ourselves chatting with a mutual friend of the birthday boy. Coffeeboy and Birthday Boy have a communications firm on the drawing board right now, with Coffeeboy slated to do all the design and Birthday Boy to do...whatever else communications firms do. They swapped business cards, they promised to get together.
Finally, the friend turned to me and said, "and what about yourself? What do you do?"
Awkward pause.
I searched frantically for help in Coffeeboy's eyes, but he gave me a little nudge to answer instead.
"Oh. I....I'm a waitress."
Another awkward pause.
"That's....nice."
Coffeeboy pointed out to me later that I looked positively mortified when I said this. Why? My job is demanding, isn't it? I've survived where most quit within two months, haven't I? Somehow, even though Coffeeboy reminded me insistedly about all these things, I knew that I would never be comfortable talking about my work in that sort of scenerio. I was only comfortable when I managed to toss in that I teach karate, I write, I yada yada yada.
I know that that woman held the same view of waitresses as most of my customers: I don't have an education, I probably party every weekend, and I'm really not fit to do anything more challenging. What I'm not so happy to admit is that, when push comes to shove, I'm not always up to defending the truth. Suddenly, my short dress seemed sexy, just like my waitress persona. My cosmopolitan seemed classy, just like her as well. I wanted so badly to crawl out of my skin, of the image of myself I'd constructed, but I couldn't remember where the waitress stopped and I began. I didn't know whether I wanted to change the subject or brag about serving the entire restaurant myself.
What I did was let myself fade into the background of the conversation, watching the sushi waitress walk by in kitten heels and a pencil skirt to show off her curves and thought she was holding that tray all wrong.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The other night, Coffeeboy had his first real fuckup with me. I'm a vegetarian. I don't want to give you all my reasons, and please save me your eyerolling, shoddy logic and/or tofu horror stories, because I am so OVER debating it every time I try to have lunch. You eat your beef, I'll photosynthesize or live off cumshots or, ya know, combine my own damn amino acids like we're supposed to.
Aaanyways.
For the most part, Coffeeboy has been very understanding, and has even said that my eco-related vegetarianism is one of his favourite traits about me. He eats very little meat himself, calling himself a 'flexitarian', which is why it startled me so much when he announced with a sly smile, right after I'd finished an incredible grilled sandwich of his involving fig, gruyere, and miche, that those little blach things in there? Anchovies.
Now. I didn't yell, even though I wanted to, and I didn't pull any passive-agressive bullshit. I explained to him that I was very hurt by a) his lying to me b) his presuming that he knew better for me than I did and c) the fact that I'd eaten a fish and ew, guys, I don't know how anyone ever confuses fish with food.
And I know how to lay on the guilt. I got a horrified apology, and honest-to-God terror that he'd fucked up beyond repair. Of course it wasn't beyond repair. But I was very hurt, no matter how hard I tried to forgive him, and we went to sleep shortly thereafter on opposite sides of the bed.
Three a.m., and Coffeeboy is shaking me frantically, telling me to wake up. Through my sleepy fog I could hear the fire alarm going off, and the rest of the roommates / roommates significant others - a total of ten people or so on any given night - shuffling around, cursing, panicking. The dogs barking. The door opening, then slamming shut as everyone bolted.
By this point, I was in the first pair of pants I saw and a t shirt. Coffeeboy was running around panicked, still not clothed, still not ready to bolt.
I started for the door, but stopped. It's weird what your mind will do under pressure. Or, rather, your body; my brain was telling me, "GO you idiot!" but my legs were having none of it. I couldn't leave that room without him.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Coffeeboy was ready, shoes and pants on. We ran down the stairs, to find the roommates in a puddle by the door to the bar, watching the manager fiddling around with the alarm.
"Sorry," he said. "False alarm."
"Guys," said one of the roommates, a big husky guy currently sleeping in the living room, "it took you fucking forever to get down here. We were worried sick."
Is it wrong that it terrifies me that I stayed? Or would it have terrified me more if I hadn't?
Aaanyways.
For the most part, Coffeeboy has been very understanding, and has even said that my eco-related vegetarianism is one of his favourite traits about me. He eats very little meat himself, calling himself a 'flexitarian', which is why it startled me so much when he announced with a sly smile, right after I'd finished an incredible grilled sandwich of his involving fig, gruyere, and miche, that those little blach things in there? Anchovies.
Now. I didn't yell, even though I wanted to, and I didn't pull any passive-agressive bullshit. I explained to him that I was very hurt by a) his lying to me b) his presuming that he knew better for me than I did and c) the fact that I'd eaten a fish and ew, guys, I don't know how anyone ever confuses fish with food.
And I know how to lay on the guilt. I got a horrified apology, and honest-to-God terror that he'd fucked up beyond repair. Of course it wasn't beyond repair. But I was very hurt, no matter how hard I tried to forgive him, and we went to sleep shortly thereafter on opposite sides of the bed.
Three a.m., and Coffeeboy is shaking me frantically, telling me to wake up. Through my sleepy fog I could hear the fire alarm going off, and the rest of the roommates / roommates significant others - a total of ten people or so on any given night - shuffling around, cursing, panicking. The dogs barking. The door opening, then slamming shut as everyone bolted.
By this point, I was in the first pair of pants I saw and a t shirt. Coffeeboy was running around panicked, still not clothed, still not ready to bolt.
I started for the door, but stopped. It's weird what your mind will do under pressure. Or, rather, your body; my brain was telling me, "GO you idiot!" but my legs were having none of it. I couldn't leave that room without him.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Coffeeboy was ready, shoes and pants on. We ran down the stairs, to find the roommates in a puddle by the door to the bar, watching the manager fiddling around with the alarm.
"Sorry," he said. "False alarm."
"Guys," said one of the roommates, a big husky guy currently sleeping in the living room, "it took you fucking forever to get down here. We were worried sick."
Is it wrong that it terrifies me that I stayed? Or would it have terrified me more if I hadn't?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Disadvantages to moving in with Coffeeboy:
- Sharing a bathroom with a boy. Hell, sharing a bathroom with anybody. I'm no girly girl, but I've got some fucking lotions.
- 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?)
- 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?
- 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:
- 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?
- The man takes uncanny joy in giving me massages. No, really.
- My toothbrush hasn't been out of my purse in two months. It would like a home.
- So would I.
Well, it looks like I've found one.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
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 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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, December 5, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
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?"
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?"
Sunday, November 23, 2008
I never really thought about the day when the insanity of waitressing would seem like routine. The learning curve was not as long as I thought it would be, which leads me to believe that this all has a lot more to do with inherent qualities, like a level head and thick skin, than the ability to remember a PLU. But it's hard to be introspective about something nobody ever really thinks about. Most customers look at me the same way they look at the giant plant in the middle of the dining room.
But at any rate, it has all become quite routine. My fingers know how to roll cutlery without me even having to look at what I'm doing. My apron is beggining to wear at the hips, where it rubs when I walk across the dining room; I can balance just about anything in one hand and use the other. I have bad ankles, and even on my days off I half expect them to start hurting at around noon, and I'm always surprised when they don't and feel a bit off kilter. I've become accustomed to a little lift when I pick of a plate and feel it warm on my palm, because it's always cold in the restaurant.
G. likes an extra egg on his croque madame. S. likes her cappucino extra hot.
I try not to notice that my tips are higher when I wear a particular skirt of mine that rises well above the knee. I try harder not to notice myself wearing it more often shortly before rent is due.
It made my day on Tuesday when Austria complimented my service. I remembered his small water glass and extra napkin to hold his sandwich. When he gruffly told me that I "may serve him again", I actually grinned from ear to fucking ear and bragged to eveyone in the kitchen. It took Coworker, who Austria once brought to tears, telling me not to take that bullshit from him for me to realise that that was, in fact, bullshit.
I serve people high quality food all day, and tonight I had dinner at a fast food place after counting my change to make sure I could. Austria had been weighing heavily on my mind. I haven't saved a penny, and I only went out to escape the fact that I float on the surface of my house, trying not to notice how out of place I am. Nobody ever philosophizes about waitressing, nobody ponders the effects an eight-hour day without breaks might have - if anyone is thinking that hard at all, it's about Bigger Questions, sitting in some cafe, looking at their waitress like she's that goddamn plant.
I don't think about Bigger Questions much anymore. I only think about remembering to fold the napkins. Every once in awhile, though, I sit in this tiny bedroom on my broken bed and wonder what I'm doing when I can't even tell the days apart.
I'm reading a book, slowly, that is the memoirs of a waitress. It wasn't exactly a big seller, obviously, and I don't think anyone except other waitresses ever read it, but every once in awhile I nibble through it when my brain is too tired for the Shakespeare I promised myself I wouldn't stop reading. I was reading it over 'dinner' tonight, and I almost cried when I read this passage:
"Perhaps, when he first met me, Dominic mistook me for an image of some diner waitress he had in his imagination: a poor working girl struggling to raise a kid on her own and desperately in need of a man to fix everything for her. I couldn't fault him too much in this. For a brief while, I thought I was that waitress, too. In any case, though, I'd been paving my own way for much too long to become the 'girl' Dominic was looking for."
But at any rate, it has all become quite routine. My fingers know how to roll cutlery without me even having to look at what I'm doing. My apron is beggining to wear at the hips, where it rubs when I walk across the dining room; I can balance just about anything in one hand and use the other. I have bad ankles, and even on my days off I half expect them to start hurting at around noon, and I'm always surprised when they don't and feel a bit off kilter. I've become accustomed to a little lift when I pick of a plate and feel it warm on my palm, because it's always cold in the restaurant.
G. likes an extra egg on his croque madame. S. likes her cappucino extra hot.
I try not to notice that my tips are higher when I wear a particular skirt of mine that rises well above the knee. I try harder not to notice myself wearing it more often shortly before rent is due.
It made my day on Tuesday when Austria complimented my service. I remembered his small water glass and extra napkin to hold his sandwich. When he gruffly told me that I "may serve him again", I actually grinned from ear to fucking ear and bragged to eveyone in the kitchen. It took Coworker, who Austria once brought to tears, telling me not to take that bullshit from him for me to realise that that was, in fact, bullshit.
I serve people high quality food all day, and tonight I had dinner at a fast food place after counting my change to make sure I could. Austria had been weighing heavily on my mind. I haven't saved a penny, and I only went out to escape the fact that I float on the surface of my house, trying not to notice how out of place I am. Nobody ever philosophizes about waitressing, nobody ponders the effects an eight-hour day without breaks might have - if anyone is thinking that hard at all, it's about Bigger Questions, sitting in some cafe, looking at their waitress like she's that goddamn plant.
I don't think about Bigger Questions much anymore. I only think about remembering to fold the napkins. Every once in awhile, though, I sit in this tiny bedroom on my broken bed and wonder what I'm doing when I can't even tell the days apart.
I'm reading a book, slowly, that is the memoirs of a waitress. It wasn't exactly a big seller, obviously, and I don't think anyone except other waitresses ever read it, but every once in awhile I nibble through it when my brain is too tired for the Shakespeare I promised myself I wouldn't stop reading. I was reading it over 'dinner' tonight, and I almost cried when I read this passage:
"Perhaps, when he first met me, Dominic mistook me for an image of some diner waitress he had in his imagination: a poor working girl struggling to raise a kid on her own and desperately in need of a man to fix everything for her. I couldn't fault him too much in this. For a brief while, I thought I was that waitress, too. In any case, though, I'd been paving my own way for much too long to become the 'girl' Dominic was looking for."
Thursday, November 13, 2008
This week has been much more mellow than most. The reason is that Stressball Boss has been out of town on - vacation? Fuck if I know.
Don't get me wrong. I love my boss. She's wonderful and fun and maternal towards all of us young 'uns. But Dear God, that woman can stress like none other. And it's the contagious sort of stress, wherein every lunch rush, we'll be plugging along just fine, until...
"WHERE'STHECOFFEEETABLESIXNEEDSWATERINEEDACROQUEMADAMENOWNOWNOW".
And next thing we know, we're all likewise. It's bad enough that several of the baristas have started pulling her decafs to help ease the situation.
With SBB gone, however, things have been much calmer. Today was a bit nuts for awhile; not because of business, but because the Incredible Genius' of the Fridge People decided that, yeah, 12:30 is a good time to show up at restaurant to istall a new fridge.
Yeah. 12:30. You won't be getting in anyone's way THEN.
(Our old fridge was quite the curmudgeon, in it's own nearly-charming way. We'd had it repaired about three times before, but once every week or so, we'd show up to find all of our milk soured. A morning without cappucino is not a good morning at all.)
The whole week-without-boss theory was all well and good until today, which was supposed to be tipout day. I came back to work about an hour ago, as prescribed, to pick up my tips, and found that I'd only been left tips for yesterday, instead of for all of last weeks. Uh. No. But, since SBB was absentee and her husband had again left for their other restaurant, there was nothing to be done. So I pocketed my shitty tips, and vowed to raise hell tomorrow.
Don't get me wrong. I love my boss. She's wonderful and fun and maternal towards all of us young 'uns. But Dear God, that woman can stress like none other. And it's the contagious sort of stress, wherein every lunch rush, we'll be plugging along just fine, until...
"WHERE'STHECOFFEEETABLESIXNEEDSWATERINEEDACROQUEMADAMENOWNOWNOW".
And next thing we know, we're all likewise. It's bad enough that several of the baristas have started pulling her decafs to help ease the situation.
With SBB gone, however, things have been much calmer. Today was a bit nuts for awhile; not because of business, but because the Incredible Genius' of the Fridge People decided that, yeah, 12:30 is a good time to show up at restaurant to istall a new fridge.
Yeah. 12:30. You won't be getting in anyone's way THEN.
(Our old fridge was quite the curmudgeon, in it's own nearly-charming way. We'd had it repaired about three times before, but once every week or so, we'd show up to find all of our milk soured. A morning without cappucino is not a good morning at all.)
The whole week-without-boss theory was all well and good until today, which was supposed to be tipout day. I came back to work about an hour ago, as prescribed, to pick up my tips, and found that I'd only been left tips for yesterday, instead of for all of last weeks. Uh. No. But, since SBB was absentee and her husband had again left for their other restaurant, there was nothing to be done. So I pocketed my shitty tips, and vowed to raise hell tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
My luxurious three-day weekend is going to come to a screeching halt tomorrow morning, when I have to get up at Fucking Early o'clock for work. Oh well. Everything has been closed for the past two days, and if I don't get a decent cappucino in me soon, ugly things will happen.
I was walking home from the elementary school, where I mentor a sweet little girl once a week with Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and I came across an apple tree, slightly off the road, loaded with apples. I mean loaded. I mentioned it to Coffeeboy later, and next thing I knew, we were stealing away after dark with canvas bags, on a full-on fruit glean.
It really angers me to see fruit go to waste like that. Half of them were already rotting on the ground. Perfectly good apples! There are people starving!
It also really amazes me the capacity this area has to grow food. I live right in the area where the 100 Mile Diet took place and was written. While reading, I flapped around with ridiculous glee every time the authors mentioned a place I'd been. Hey! Hey everyone! It's a book! And they're talking about that place I went!
A single apple tree yielded twelve pounds of apples. We started just picking the ones at arms length, but it was infuriating to pick through tiny-assed brown apples and watch plump, red ones sway carelessly above us. So the tree was climbed, Coffeboy's shoulders were sat on, and we gleaned that tree's ass off.
We also stumbled across an abandoned grape vine right next to it, obviously not tended to in years, growing on a rotting trellace. Best grapes ever. Most were red, some were green, all were tart and the most flavorfull grapes I've ever eaten. They were turned into awesome juice at 2 a.m. this morning.
I picked up some jars today, so Coffeeboy and I are making apple butter tonight. There will be pie. And applesauce.
Did I mention that Coffeeboy grew up on a farm? My little urbanite! He knows all sorts of useful farmish things, like What Kind Of Apple This Is and How To Can It. There were pigs, there were birds of all sorts, there were 88 acres. I'm starting to feel a bit farmish myself tonight.
I was walking home from the elementary school, where I mentor a sweet little girl once a week with Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and I came across an apple tree, slightly off the road, loaded with apples. I mean loaded. I mentioned it to Coffeeboy later, and next thing I knew, we were stealing away after dark with canvas bags, on a full-on fruit glean.
It really angers me to see fruit go to waste like that. Half of them were already rotting on the ground. Perfectly good apples! There are people starving!
It also really amazes me the capacity this area has to grow food. I live right in the area where the 100 Mile Diet took place and was written. While reading, I flapped around with ridiculous glee every time the authors mentioned a place I'd been. Hey! Hey everyone! It's a book! And they're talking about that place I went!
A single apple tree yielded twelve pounds of apples. We started just picking the ones at arms length, but it was infuriating to pick through tiny-assed brown apples and watch plump, red ones sway carelessly above us. So the tree was climbed, Coffeboy's shoulders were sat on, and we gleaned that tree's ass off.
We also stumbled across an abandoned grape vine right next to it, obviously not tended to in years, growing on a rotting trellace. Best grapes ever. Most were red, some were green, all were tart and the most flavorfull grapes I've ever eaten. They were turned into awesome juice at 2 a.m. this morning.
I picked up some jars today, so Coffeeboy and I are making apple butter tonight. There will be pie. And applesauce.
Did I mention that Coffeeboy grew up on a farm? My little urbanite! He knows all sorts of useful farmish things, like What Kind Of Apple This Is and How To Can It. There were pigs, there were birds of all sorts, there were 88 acres. I'm starting to feel a bit farmish myself tonight.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Keys
M. called me last night to make sure I was going to karate. He wanted to go grab a coffee pre-training, and 'talk about some stuff'.
Turns out, he's seing someone new. I didn't have a real strong reaction to it - it seems a bit odd for me to imagine, but on the whole, I'm pretty OK with it. I've had some seriously mixed feelings towards M. for the past couple months, ranging from what I'm now calling a relapse, to platonic friendship, to some pretty severe resentment (not having to do with our history, more along the karate lines.... 'nother story) to a weird sort of void that I have right now. I don't really feel anything towards him, good or bad; in fact, I probably wouldn't notice if I just lost contact with him.
Which, on one hand, is incredibly sad. We were inseperable for four years. He was the best friend I've ever had, even if he's not anymore. On the other hand, it's nice to be able to hear that he's seeing someone and not have a huge load of drama. It's weird, it's a bit shitty, but on the whole, it's OK.
What bothered me more was when he asked me for his spare keys back. He'd given me my old key back when we 'relapsed'. And, in retreospect, that was fucked up - it was like I walked into my old life, and just picked up where I left off, barely noticing the year-ish lapse.
I hadn't thought about the keys in a long time - I think I forgot I had them. But I dutifully, and a bit awkwardly, pulled them off my keychain and gave them to him last night. And don't think my head wasn't spinning metaphors about one direction being closed off the me, completely, now. Before I had the mindset of a standing offer from him; should this all get too scary, I still have the keys and I can still walk back into my crushingly empty, mercifully easy life.
Not anymore. That offer is gone, and it's very likely that someone else is using my keys, to get into my home, to sleep in my bed, tonight.
Bitch better not pet my cat.
(I kid, I kid.)
This all got me thinking about my home. As I`ve said, it`s not really a home to me right now. It`s more a place to keep my clothes, and I wander in and back out of it for about an hour a day. Still, I`m not ready to accept another standing offer, this one from Coffeeboy, to officially pack up my clothes and move them to his house. He has more than ample closetspace, but I still come with a lot of baggage, and I came to the decision that I need to drastically reduce it before trying to cram it in said closet. So we`ll continue as we are for now, even if it does feel filthily like camping.
He was a bit hurt, but reassured when I said it will more than likely happen in time. He has a similar skeleton in the closet, a three-year deal that wasn`t live-in but close. He understood. Still determined to take a step forward, however, Coffeeboy came up with a plan.
He showed up at the Cafe today. It was a very busy day - the sort where I wind up working 8-5 with no break. When he showed up at around 3, I was running around chasing after drinks, standing listlessly by while customers took a table vote on whether to get baguette or miche while the cook shouted frantically that my food for 5 was getting cold, and explaining the goddamn specials every five minutes. I finally had a second to say hi, as I was rolling the cutlery we inevitably ran out of. He said, `here, this will cheer you up - hold out your hand.` And he handed me - yup, you guessed it - one brand new silver key.
Turns out, he's seing someone new. I didn't have a real strong reaction to it - it seems a bit odd for me to imagine, but on the whole, I'm pretty OK with it. I've had some seriously mixed feelings towards M. for the past couple months, ranging from what I'm now calling a relapse, to platonic friendship, to some pretty severe resentment (not having to do with our history, more along the karate lines.... 'nother story) to a weird sort of void that I have right now. I don't really feel anything towards him, good or bad; in fact, I probably wouldn't notice if I just lost contact with him.
Which, on one hand, is incredibly sad. We were inseperable for four years. He was the best friend I've ever had, even if he's not anymore. On the other hand, it's nice to be able to hear that he's seeing someone and not have a huge load of drama. It's weird, it's a bit shitty, but on the whole, it's OK.
What bothered me more was when he asked me for his spare keys back. He'd given me my old key back when we 'relapsed'. And, in retreospect, that was fucked up - it was like I walked into my old life, and just picked up where I left off, barely noticing the year-ish lapse.
I hadn't thought about the keys in a long time - I think I forgot I had them. But I dutifully, and a bit awkwardly, pulled them off my keychain and gave them to him last night. And don't think my head wasn't spinning metaphors about one direction being closed off the me, completely, now. Before I had the mindset of a standing offer from him; should this all get too scary, I still have the keys and I can still walk back into my crushingly empty, mercifully easy life.
Not anymore. That offer is gone, and it's very likely that someone else is using my keys, to get into my home, to sleep in my bed, tonight.
Bitch better not pet my cat.
(I kid, I kid.)
This all got me thinking about my home. As I`ve said, it`s not really a home to me right now. It`s more a place to keep my clothes, and I wander in and back out of it for about an hour a day. Still, I`m not ready to accept another standing offer, this one from Coffeeboy, to officially pack up my clothes and move them to his house. He has more than ample closetspace, but I still come with a lot of baggage, and I came to the decision that I need to drastically reduce it before trying to cram it in said closet. So we`ll continue as we are for now, even if it does feel filthily like camping.
He was a bit hurt, but reassured when I said it will more than likely happen in time. He has a similar skeleton in the closet, a three-year deal that wasn`t live-in but close. He understood. Still determined to take a step forward, however, Coffeeboy came up with a plan.
He showed up at the Cafe today. It was a very busy day - the sort where I wind up working 8-5 with no break. When he showed up at around 3, I was running around chasing after drinks, standing listlessly by while customers took a table vote on whether to get baguette or miche while the cook shouted frantically that my food for 5 was getting cold, and explaining the goddamn specials every five minutes. I finally had a second to say hi, as I was rolling the cutlery we inevitably ran out of. He said, `here, this will cheer you up - hold out your hand.` And he handed me - yup, you guessed it - one brand new silver key.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Well, at least it's nice to hear of some politics that don't revolve around who-said-what-to-which-Sensei-in-who's-dojo bullshit.
And it was certainly nice last night to get involved in some local politics, instead of getting caught up in the American stuff. Coffeeboy and I went to our city council's open forum to hear them discuss local issues, like the fact that we sunk $72.5 million last year on a goddamn conference center, and have yet to build a hotel that can hold $72.5 million worth of suites for me to serve coffee to. (The conference center is about two doors up from the cafe). Well, dur, of course it hasn't paid for itself yet. And the fact that homelessness around here is rampant, which is easy for all the North-enders to ignore, but a little bit more difficult to dismiss when you, like most downtowners, know the names and history of at least half a dozen of them. These people where our neighbours, not too long ago,
(Sidenote: Coffeeboy and I both made plans to go before we even talked to each other - me because I read about it in the paper, and he because he got an email from our local Popular Participation Movement. And he had a hand in organizing a massive protest against said homelessness on campus, involving dirty students getting even dirtier as they are currently camping out in mock-homeless style. How goddamn awesome is he?!)
I heard some...er.... interesting theories from a few candidates. My favourite was the awesome! idea of inviting MORE big box stores to our already swamped small-ish town. Yeah! They save the consumer money! Never mind the fact that the consumer can't spend ANY money if her small business / her employer's small business is run into the ground. Whatevs. Walmart, ho!
There was one candidate, as well, who gave a bad name to lefties. Purely insane. It looked a lot like a like fire-and-brimstone righty, except, well, left. I suppose both sides have their ace flyers.
I'm super glad I went, because I revised my vote a lot. As in, it's almost completely different now. There were 26 candidates, which is far too many if you ask me, because I wound up resorting to note-taking to keep track of who said what. But I think I've got it sorted out. I was really happy to see downtown represented, including both my old boss from Rowdy Fast Food Place and a friend who's pamphlets were all designed by Graphic Designer Coffeeboy.
Unfortunately, I have to miss the mayoral forum tonight for karate. 'Cuz, as much as I love heckling our assmunch of a mayor and then awkwardly having to serve him his sandwich the next day, I'm getting a big round these days from a lack of training.
But the point of all this, people, is as such: go vote. Sister confessed this morning that she's never voted, doesn't know any of the candidates or anything about our political system, and thinks that 'The American election is the only one that matters, anyways." Ugh. Never have our differences been so glaringly obvious. People, if you don't like the way shit is, excercise the most powerful tool against it you've been given. Hell, if you do like the way shit is, keep it that way! For God's sake, just go vote!
And it was certainly nice last night to get involved in some local politics, instead of getting caught up in the American stuff. Coffeeboy and I went to our city council's open forum to hear them discuss local issues, like the fact that we sunk $72.5 million last year on a goddamn conference center, and have yet to build a hotel that can hold $72.5 million worth of suites for me to serve coffee to. (The conference center is about two doors up from the cafe). Well, dur, of course it hasn't paid for itself yet. And the fact that homelessness around here is rampant, which is easy for all the North-enders to ignore, but a little bit more difficult to dismiss when you, like most downtowners, know the names and history of at least half a dozen of them. These people where our neighbours, not too long ago,
(Sidenote: Coffeeboy and I both made plans to go before we even talked to each other - me because I read about it in the paper, and he because he got an email from our local Popular Participation Movement. And he had a hand in organizing a massive protest against said homelessness on campus, involving dirty students getting even dirtier as they are currently camping out in mock-homeless style. How goddamn awesome is he?!)
I heard some...er.... interesting theories from a few candidates. My favourite was the awesome! idea of inviting MORE big box stores to our already swamped small-ish town. Yeah! They save the consumer money! Never mind the fact that the consumer can't spend ANY money if her small business / her employer's small business is run into the ground. Whatevs. Walmart, ho!
There was one candidate, as well, who gave a bad name to lefties. Purely insane. It looked a lot like a like fire-and-brimstone righty, except, well, left. I suppose both sides have their ace flyers.
I'm super glad I went, because I revised my vote a lot. As in, it's almost completely different now. There were 26 candidates, which is far too many if you ask me, because I wound up resorting to note-taking to keep track of who said what. But I think I've got it sorted out. I was really happy to see downtown represented, including both my old boss from Rowdy Fast Food Place and a friend who's pamphlets were all designed by Graphic Designer Coffeeboy.
Unfortunately, I have to miss the mayoral forum tonight for karate. 'Cuz, as much as I love heckling our assmunch of a mayor and then awkwardly having to serve him his sandwich the next day, I'm getting a big round these days from a lack of training.
But the point of all this, people, is as such: go vote. Sister confessed this morning that she's never voted, doesn't know any of the candidates or anything about our political system, and thinks that 'The American election is the only one that matters, anyways." Ugh. Never have our differences been so glaringly obvious. People, if you don't like the way shit is, excercise the most powerful tool against it you've been given. Hell, if you do like the way shit is, keep it that way! For God's sake, just go vote!
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